Scorns of Time
by Patrice J
Summary: Her journeys with the Doctor have ended, but can Donna really walk away unscathed?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Doctor Who_ is the property of the BBC, and no infringement is intended.

* * *

He missed her fiercely. Funny thought, that, since she was standing in the next room. Donna was still here, still a part of the family, and he saw her every day. But the compassionate, confident, thoughtful woman she had become was gone, and Wilfred often found himself reminiscing about the wonderful granddaughter he had known for that short while. Oh, she remained his Donna; she always would. But occasionally memories of the talks they'd had beneath the open sky after she had met the Doctor intruded upon his thoughts.

She was on the phone again now, laughing loudly as she gossiped with one of her friends. He could hear the grating tone of her voice, and he knew her words were insipid. But she remained his granddaughter. He loved her, no matter how she spoke or acted.

Wilfred rubbed at his forehead, trying to assuage the headache he'd had for the past week or so. That must be why he was feeling the niggling annoyance with Donna. Truth be told, he was extremely grateful that she was back with him, that she was all right.

He knew that she was a hero, that she had saved countless lives during her tenure with the Doctor. He wished that he could tell her how proud he was, how much he admired the person she had grown into during those months. He couldn't, of course. The Doctor had made that fact very clear. A single mention of the TARDIS or the Time Lord would prove deadly to his granddaughter.

He and Sylvia had been careful, watching their words and keeping Donna away from situations that might nudge some shred of suppressed memory to the surface. It had been easier for Sylvia; within a few short days of Donna's return, she had slipped back into her old habits, berating her daughter, treating her as little more than a burden. Donna, of course, had responded in kind, snapping back at her mother with rolls of her eyes and rancorous retorts.

Wilfred's only sanctuary was his telescope and the panoply of stars above his head. He sat, eyes trained upon the dark and infinite canopy, for hours each night, and true to his word, given nearly three months ago, he thought of the Doctor with gratitude, awe, and gentle affection. Sometimes he saw a blue streak out of the corner of his eye, and once or twice he had squinted through the lens, convinced he would catch a glimpse of the ship. He had been disappointed to find only the night sky and the twinkling stars.

He understood that the Doctor could not return, at least not anywhere near Chiswick. Still, the thought that the Time Lord might pass by, just for a moment, was comforting.

Wilfred pressed his hands over his head; the ache had grown worse. He was chilled now, too, despite the temperate summer air. He sighed and covered the telescope. It was time to go back inside, back to Donna and Sylvia and their ordinary, prosaic lives.

* * *

The news was anything but ordinary. Wilfred sat stoically and listened to the neurologist's words, although he processed only fragments:

"…type of glioma… glioblastoma multiform, based on the optic nerve… inoperable, but we'll begin a course of radiation immediately… headaches and visual disturbances."

"Is that what caused his seizure?" Sylvia asked, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

"Yes. There may be more, although we'll put you on an anti-seizure medication."

Sylvia touched Wilfred's arm, and he forced himself to turn his head and look at her. He smiled.

"It'll be all right," he said woodenly.

She shook her head, and he saw her blink rapidly several times. "But he says it can't be removed—"

"The radiation may help," the neurologist offered, though his tone was grave.

Wilfred patted Sylvia's hand. "Well, there, you see."

Additional words followed, but it all summed up to a less than optimistic prognosis. Wilfred and Sylvia walked out into the hallway. Both were quiet for a few moments, then she spoke.

"Oh God, I have to tell Donna."

Wilfred exhaled slowly. "No, I'll do it."

"You sure, Dad?"

"It'll be easier on her to hear it from me."

Sylvia nodded, and he knew she was relieved. Sharing the latest news about a cousin's romantic exploits or hideous new hair color was one thing; telling your daughter that her grandfather had only a few months to live was quite another.

* * *

He broke the news to her after dinner, while they were nibbling biscuits and sipping tea. At first Donna chortled, thinking he was telling some sort of morbid joke. However, he did not return her smile. He gripped her hands a bit tighter and focused his gaze upon her.

"Donna, no," he said.

"But you can't be—" she stammered. She shook her head violently, ripping her hands away. "No! That's not—you're not—Oh my God."

"It'll be all right," he said. "I've had a long life, a good life."

"No, don't talk like that. There's got to be something. Those idiots're probably mistaken, probably mixed up your results with someone else's. Happened to Nerys once. They told her she was pregnant, and she just about throttled her boyfriend 'cause he'd told her he couldn't have children. But it was all a big, flippin' mistake. That's what happened, I just know it. You have to call them back, get them to do the tests again—"

Wilfred smiled gently. "There's no mistake."

"Well, I think there is!" she cried. She pulled her phone from her pocket and punched savagely at the keys. "I know this bloke, Peter, who works at the hospital in the records department. I'm gonna have him look into this, see whose files those sodding gits mixed up…"

He was about to tell her to stop, to leave it alone, but she was already talking, barking out orders to the hapless clerk on the other end of the line. Wilfred finished his tea and walked outside to the sanctuary of the stars.

* * *

He was gazing at Scorpio when Donna quietly made her way toward him. She walked with soft steps, the gravity of the situation subduing her now she knew there had been no mistake.

She sat beside him and took his hand. He patted her wrist affectionately.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

Wilfred shook his head. "No."

"Will you be? I mean later, once it's…" She choked back a sob.

"I don't know. There's medicine for that. It won't be so bad."

Tears streaked her cheeks. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, encouraging her to lean into him. She hiccupped a few sobs, then uttered, "That's the last thing you need, me going all weepy on you."

"It's all right, Donna. I don't mind."

She sniffled and snuggled into him. They sat without speaking for several minutes; no words were required. Wilfred's eyes moved back up to the sky. Sirius was bright tonight, brighter than he'd seen it in some time.

"Mum says they can't operate," Donna said softly, "but they're gonna try radiation. I think you should get a second, or maybe a third, opinion."

He ran a hand over her hair, only mildly surprised to notice the slight tremor in his fingers. "I saw the scan; he showed me where the tumor is."

"But someone else could have a different opinion, know of some new treatment or drugs or something."

The deep poignancy of her tone reminded him of the brave, empathetic girl he had known for those few months. Maybe it wasn't all gone; maybe a hint of that deeper sense of humanity remained.

She lifted her head to look at him, and he offered her a thin smile. Then he shifted his gaze upward again, pointing to the north. "Sirius looks close tonight," he commented.

"Granddad, please," she began.

"Shush now. Just look at those brilliant stars, stretching out into infinity."

She titled back her head, her own eyes trained on the celestial bodies. But her thoughts had not shifted. "I'm just saying—"

"Donna—"

"I'm just saying," she continued, undeterred, "that there must be someone else, some specialist who can help. You just have to find the right—"

"Look," he interjected mildly, "shooting star."

"—doctor," she finished, watching the brief streak of light across the sky.

He took her silence as an indicator of her acceptance of the situation. There was something about studying the sky, observing the grand phenomena of the limitless heavens, that proved calming, that helped one to realize the vastness of it all and the tiny, insignificant part each human played in the grand scheme of things.

Donna gasped, and Wilfred moved his gaze to her face. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide and staring upward.

"Donna?" he asked. "What is it?"

She blinked, slowly turning her head back toward him. "Dunno. I thought I saw something—up there. But… but there's only the stars."

"Yes, just the stars and planets, nothing more," he reassured her, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Time," she murmured almost dreamily. "Time and space, dimensions in time and space."

"Donna," he said sharply, "no, there's just space."

She gave her head a little shake then rubbed a hand across her brow. "Sorry, don't know what I was thinking."

"It's all right. This has been a long day. We could all use some sleep." He got to his feet slowly, fighting a small wave of dizziness. He extended his hand to his granddaughter.

She took it and rose, too. "Yeah."

They walked back to the house in silence. Wilfred stole a few glances at Donna. She had an odd expression on her face, one midway between confusion and concern.

As they stepped inside, he said, "Don't worry about your old granddad."

She kissed his cheek. "Can't help it."

She wiped a hand over her eyes and walked away.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

Donna tossed restlessly in bed, tangling the sheets about her legs. She was not really asleep, but she was not fully awake, either. She was caught in the twilight, mesmerized by the singing. The voices were ethereal and deeply affecting, but there were no words, only a wrenching evocation of something she could not name.

Finally she woke, sitting upright and blinking in the early morning light. Her heart was pounding, and her head ached dully, and then she remembered that her grandfather was dying.

Tears prickled at her eyes. She indulged in a few minutes of silent weeping then wiped her cheeks, took a deep breath, and got out of bed. She would need to be strong for him, keep up a cheerful front. But the remnants of that irrevocably touching song whispered in her mind, and with them came a sense of loss and emptiness, of something lost that she wanted to get back.

She pressed her fist against her forehead then lowered it in defeat. Stupid brain, locked away in her thick skull, just as her grandfather's was. And if it weren't, if it were accessible, the tumor could be removed. She shook her head. What the hell was she thinking? It wasn't as if a person could just hold his brain in his hands…

"Donna! Breakfast!" her mum yelled.

Donna got out of bed sluggishly. A glance out the window showed that the sky was overcast and grey.

"Great," she muttered, "just perfect." A dreary day to match her melancholy mood…

She pulled on a robe and plastered on a smile, because despite her lugubrious feelings, a cheery greeting was the least her grandfather deserved.

Donna thought Wilfred looked pale and tired and wondered that she hadn't noticed it before. She had seen him taking Paracetamol several times during the last couple of weeks but hadn't thought to question it. Maybe if she had said something then, if she had realized something was wrong…

"Two heads!" Sylvia exclaimed, thrusting the paper at her daughter and Wilf. "Happens with cattle sometimes, they say, but this is one of the first pigs like this in Britain. Farm up in the Cotswolds—"

Donna glanced idly at the photo. "Yeah, ood."

"What?" her mother questioned.

"Hmm?" She wrapped her fingers around her mug; the drizzly weather left her vaguely chilled.

"What'd you say?"

"Oo--, oo--," she stammered, suddenly tongue-tied. "Odd," she nearly spat. "That's odd."

"I'll say. Just look at it. Can't imagine what it sounds like, two oinks and grunts 'stead of one. World's getting stranger all the time."

"Sylvia!" Wilfred hissed under his breath.

Sylvia set down the paper and coughed lightly. "It's the news. They report these things now. Didn't used to do when I was a girl. Suppose we just hear about stuff more now."

"Environmental changes can lead to genetic mutations," Donna said. "That farm's probably near a toxic waste site or too close to electrical wires. Messes with the DNA, causes changes in the nu—, nu—, nucleotide sequence—can mix up the ad-adenine and cy--, cy--, cytosine or the guanine and the thymine. Then you end up with an A—ACGT CAGT, CAGT, CAGT—"

"Huh?" Sylvia interjected. "Where the hell'd you learn that?"

Donna blinked. "What?"

"That stuff you were sayin'," her mother replied. "About mutations."

Donna shrugged and ran a hand through her hair. "Dunno."

With a warning glance at his daughter, Wilfred reached for Donna's cup to refill it. His voice was a bit abrupt as he said, "Have some more tea."

"Your hand's shaking, Dad," Sylvia noted. "Here, let me."

She took the pot from her father and topped off the cups. Neither she nor Donna saw Wilfred's blanched face and wide eyes as he pulled his trembling hands into his lap.

* * *

That night Donna dreamt of fire, of smoke and ash and countless people screaming, imploring her for help that she refused to give. She wanted to save every one of them, but something restrained her.

When she jerked awake before dawn, she was hot and her skin was slick with perspiration. She forced herself to breathe deeply and slowly in an attempt to calm her racing heart. She fell into a fitful sleep again just as wan light crept into her room.

She dragged herself out of bed at 8:30, grateful that it was Saturday. Donna felt sluggish and warm and wondered if she were coming down with a cold or flu. She would need to keep away from her grandfather; the last thing he needed was to catch some sort of virus. His tumor was probably producing high levels of cytokine which would suppress the activity of macrophages and lymphocytes. Then again, he might have developed immunological tolerance against the antigens that would normally attempt to destroy the tumor—

She blinked and rubbed her hands over her eyes. What had she just been thinking? She couldn't remember. She put on her robe and shuffled off to the bathroom. A cool shower would do her a world of good.

Donna remained in her room most of the day, avoiding her grandfather on the off chance that she was flirting with illness. She had felt much better after her shower, but still, one could never be too careful.

Her mother had pressed a hand over her forehead and proclaimed that she had no fever and was malingering. Donna assured the woman that she was only looking out for her granddad, who couldn't afford to get sick just now. Again those strange words—macrophages and antigens and cytokine—tumbled from her mouth, but she hardly processed them. Her mother was frowning dreadfully and shaking her head and calling her "Miss High 'n Mighty just 'cause she worked a few days doin' filin' at the university science lab."

Donna placated her by offering to fold and iron all the laundry in the seclusion of her room. Sylvia begrudgingly brought her tea and sandwiches, along with a short lecture about spending time with her grandfather while she was still able.

When she carried the tea things back to the kitchen, Sylvia found Wilfred sitting at the table. He had been out fiddling with his telescope for most of the day. The weather was pleasant, so she hadn't tried to dissuade him from going outside.

"She's still feeling peaky?" he asked.

Sylvia nodded. "So she says. She looks fine to me, doesn't have a fever that I can tell. At least she's doin' something to help out. I've got her ironing, but you'll probably find scorch marks on your Sunday shirt—"

"Sylvia," he interjected mildly, "she's trying. Remember that this isn't who she can be."

"No, she thinks she can be better 'n' us, with her fancy talk an' all. She spends three days temping at the university an' she thinks she's a scientist or something now."

"She's a clever girl."

"Not clever enough to keep a decent job an' help support her family."

Wilfred frowned as the import of her conversation struck him fully. "What'd you mean, 'fancy talk'?"

"Usin' all sorts o' big words about diseases, as if she knows what she's talkin' about—just like yesterday with all that stuff about genes."

The old man's face paled. "Sounding like she's someone else," he summarized, his voice slightly tremulous.

He exhaled slowly as his gaze moved toward the window. "I was hoping that wasn't it, that it was just some fluke. My fault," he murmured, "me an' the damned stars."

Sylvia was putting the dishes in the sink; she did not hear all of his words. "What're you on about?"

But he did not answer her. It was probably best to permit her to maintain the tacit denial she had created since Donna's return. His attention was drawn to the glimpse of sky visible through the curtains.

"Dad? Hey, you all right? You look pale."

He lifted a shaking hand to cover his eyes, the gravity of his inadvertent action weighing upon him heavily.

Sylvia was hovering before him, touching his shoulder tentatively. "You all right?" she asked again. "D'you want me to call the doctor?"

His hand dropped down onto the table with a small thud. "No," he muttered, "no. I have to do it."

He pushed himself to his feet and shuffled off to his room, leaving his daughter entirely perplexed. She supposed, though, that it was just an effect of the disease. There would probably be a lot more odd behavior from here on out, and she would just have to get used to it.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

Wilfred spent a long time in his room, his mind working furiously, alternating between berating himself for his slip-up and desperately grasping for viable ideas. He did not know how much time Donna had, but he suspected it wasn't long. He had heard her strange stutters and repetitions with the uncharacteristic words that left her mouth yesterday, but he had hoped it was just a momentary lapse. Today was another matter. She was starting to remember, and the Doctor had told him quite clearly that such an event would lead to her death.

After several hours he stood and shambled out into the hallway, making his way to Donna's room. Her door was partially closed, so he knocked lightly.

"Yeah?" she responded.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"No, you'd better not."

"Still feeling poorly?" he inquired, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Just a little, but I don't wanna risk you gettin' sick, just in case."

"I'm already sick," he replied, almost smiling at the irony.

"Yeah, I—that's not what I meant!!"

"I know." He poked his head inside the door. She was sitting on her bed, a magazine open beside her. He thought her color was a bit off.

"Hey," she protested.

"I just wanted to see my favorite granddaughter," he said mildly. "See that she's all right."

"Don't worry about me."

He offered her a wan smile. "Can't help it, sweetheart."

"I think I can survive a little headache."

"You look tired," he observed.

She shrugged. "Been havin' some weird dreams the last couple of nights. I'll be all right."

He nodded sadly. "'Course you will. But do your old granddad a favor, won't you?"

"Anything," she replied earnestly, her eyes beginning to shine with tears.

"Try and get some rest tonight. Just stay in here, in bed, and see if you don't feel better in the morning."

She nodded. "Yeah, think I can do that."

He hesitated in the doorway, his trembling fingers grasping the wall tightly. He was utterly loath to ask his next question, but he knew of no other way to gain the information he—and she—so desperately needed. He hoped it was worth the risk.

"Oh, and Donna," he said, forcing a casual note into his tone, "what d'you know about sending signals out into space?"

"Into space?" she repeated, frowning slightly.

He hoped desperately that her expression was not indicative of pain. "Mmm," he acknowledged noncommittally. "I was reading an article about it in the paper. I think they're using some sort of special radio frequency."

She looked straight ahead, her gaze fixed on some unseen point. "Probably straight-line travel propagation, using extremely high-frequency waves of at least 100 giga-Hertz."

"Huh. Is that somethin' a normal person could do—I mean build a transmitter capable of sending out that kind of signal?"

She nodded idly, then she rattled off a rapid-fire explanation that Wilfred could barely comprehend. He'd had the foresight, however, to borrow Donna's small audio recorder, the one she sometimes took to jobs when she would need to do transcription. He recorded her words, watching her anxiously as she spoke. The stuttering and repetition grew worse with each sentence.

When she had finished, she took a deep breath and rubbed her hand over her face.

"Whew, I'm sweatin'," she commented, staring at her palm. "Must be runnin' a bit of fever." She blinked at him. "What were we talkin' about?"

He smiled woodenly. "Nothing important. You were just sayin' you were going to turn in early an' get a good night's sleep."

"Oh, yeah. Think I'll do that. I'm knackered."

He bid her good night and closed the door. Wilfred stood in the hall for several minutes, breathing heavily and trying to control the shaking in his hands. He returned to his room and played the tape four times, making many notes.

He fell asleep with the notepad still resting beneath his trembling fingers.

* * *

It took two days for Wilfred to track down the equipment and secure the assistance of several helpful electronics shop clerks in piecing together the device. He built a sort of sophisticated ham radio with a few extra bits and pieces that he hoped would boost the signal sufficiently to carry it into space, at the very least past the Earth's atmosphere. He knew that the chances of the signal reaching its intended target were terribly slim, but he had no other options.

So he worked tirelessly, staying up half the night to finish the machine. Sometimes his vision blurred, and the shaking in his hands was worsening, but he was undeterred. He even cancelled his first appointment with the radiologist, against Sylvia's and Donna's very vocal protests. He told them he felt a bit under the weather and thought he might be coming down with whatever Donna had caught. Naturally this left his granddaughter feeling guilty, but that couldn't be helped.

She remained peaky, too. She had tried to go to work on Monday, but she had found herself mildly dizzy and confused by the data entry tasks she had been given. She told Wilfred that the numbers kept adding up in her head, and all she could think of was their integrals and cube roots and what would result if one fed any five of them into the Bernoullian equation, and how was anyone supposed to type in stupid digits when things like that kept happening?

Donna spent Monday afternoon in front of the telly, but he could see that she paid it little attention. Oh, her eyes flicked over the screen, but she seemed to see something else, something beyond the small box.

Sylvia accused her of malingering again and said it was quite enough that she had one invalid to take care of; she certainly couldn't, and wouldn't, handle two. Wilfred tried to assuage her, to assure her that Donna really was feeling poorly and should be left alone, but his daughter simply shot back that he was one to talk; he was ignoring his own health, and he'd better get on the phone and make another appointment with the radiologist, or she'd do it for him.

When he finally slipped outside on Monday night, it was with considerable relief. The atmosphere in the house was oppressive. Wilfred walked up the hill toward his telescope, his new device gripped firmly in his quavering hands.

He set the small machine on the ground and switched it on, referring several times to the notes he had taken. There was a slight chill in the air, and he pulled the old blanket over his legs. He steadied his hand as well as he could then began sending out the signal, hoping beyond hope that the Doctor would somehow receive it.

S-O-S W-M, S-O-S W-M, over and over and over again.

* * *

He wasn't sure what he had expected to happen, but Wilfred could not help but feel disappointed when he finally trudged into the house alone shortly before dawn. He had spent the entire night signaling, but there had been no response, nothing to indicate that his feeble message had been received.

He supposed he hadn't really believed it would work, but it had been his only hope. He was utterly exhausted and thoroughly chilled. Now that he had ceased twisting the small knobs, his hands shook fiercely. Or perhaps that was just from the coolness of the pre-dawn air.

He slipped into the house without waking Donna or Sylvia. His granddaughter had come out once to see if he was all right. He had assured her he was fine while managing to keep the device hidden beneath the lap robe. After securing his promise that he would be in to bed soon, she had left him without further conversation. He had a dreadful feeling that she had been temporarily unable to speak. He had seen her glance up at the sky once then open her mouth mutely. Finally she had turned away, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze before walking somewhat unsteadily back to the house.

His own legs felt as though they were made of jelly as he sank down onto his bed. Too tired to do more than tug the duvet up over his shoulders, Wilfred fell asleep with his shoe-clad feet still resting upon the floor.

* * *

The tiny blip on the monitor barely registered with the ship. In most other circumstances, it would have been interpreted as nothing more than a random fluctuation in electromagnetic waves as they traveled through space.

However, by some quirk of fate the ship picked up the signal. Perhaps it was slightly more attuned to such things than usual; after all, it had been through the proverbial wringer, and repairs were still taking place. Maybe one wire had been displaced and now touched another, or perhaps some subtle setting had been changed temporarily. Whatever the cause, the signal reached the sensors, and the monitor emitted a faint bleep, then another, and another.

At first the sounds went unnoticed. The room was empty, so there was no one to hear. But after a time the door opened and footsteps on metal echoed softly in the lofty space.

A vaguely bemused voice muttered, "What's this?"

A hand pressed over the cool glass and long fingers tapped at the keyboard. The images on the monitor shifted, revealing a bluish sphere easily recognized as the Earth. A few more rapidly typed commands resulted in a clear picture of the European continent followed by the outline of the British Isles.

"That's it. It's coming from just outside London…"

The hands moved away from the monitor with shaking fingers. For a few moments the room was quiet and still, then a flurry of activity ensued as the ship was prepared for the journey to Earth.

* * *

Donna appeared nearly as pale and haggard as her grandfather as they both sat down to a very late breakfast.

"Suppose you lost that job from Monday then," Sylvia said sharply as she plunked down a mug of tea at Donna's place.

"Yeah," her daughter agreed. "The numbers… all those numbers. Couldn't keep 'em straight in my head."

Sylvia shook her head. "Thought you were good with numbers. You're always tellin' me that."

"Am I?" she asked, blinking in mild confusion.

"Learned your times tables faster 'n anyone else in your class, that's one thing you did well," Sylvia continued. "Don't suppose that's much use to you now, though. 'S not like you're some maths genius, anyway."

"Maybe I am," Donna replied idly.

"Right!" her mother snorted. "Suppose Miss Smarty Pants'll know what fifty seven times two hundred ninety three is then?"

"Sixteen thousand, seven hundred one, one, one ton of fun," Donna responded immediately.

Wilfred rested a gentle upon Donna's arm. "That's enough," he said mildly.

"Huh?" she blinked at him.

But he was not addressing her. He directed his gaze to Sylvia, delivering a stern, admonishing look. A hint of worry passed over his daughter's face.

"Well," Sylvia conceded, "if you're not goin' to work today, you can at least make yourself useful around here."

"Yeah," Donna replied, but when Sylvia began rattling off chores it was clear that she was not listening.

"And you," Sylvia finished, pointing an accusatory finger at Wilfred. "You're going to call that doctor right now and be sure that he sees you as soon as he can!"

Somewhat dejectedly, Wilfred nodded. "Yes, that's just what I was planning to do."

* * *

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

He had been back on the hill, beside his telescope, for nearly three hours. Wilfred had tried to sip some tea from his Thermos, but his left hand shook too badly. He had only succeeded in spilling the hot liquid over his legs.

He managed to keep his right hand steady enough to continue sending out the signal. A few times his fingers faltered, but he would not stop until his body betrayed him completely.

Donna had gone to bed early; she had switched off her light over an hour ago. Sylvia was still up, but he could see that she had turned on the bathroom light. She would retire soon. He sighed and turned back to the device.

Its small lights blinked at him. In another circumstance he might have found the little green and yellow twinkles cheering, but tonight they seemed to mock him. They told him that his machine was functioning, was powered up and sending out the signal. But it was not enough; it could not possibly reach its intended destination.

Wilfred looked up at the sky again. The night was cloudy, and he could see only the faint glow of the moon. Still, that sense of space, of infinity so great that it defies the imagination, swept over him for a few minutes. One day soon he would be a part of that, of the vastness that stretched on forever…

"Wilfred."

The voice was so soft that he thought he had imagined it at first. For a few moments he didn't dare turn around in case it wasn't real. Finally he forced himself to look back. In the dimness he could just make out the long coat and tall, lean frame.

"Doctor," he said, his voice hoarse with relief. "You came."

The Doctor walked toward him slowly, his gaze sweeping the immediate vicinity, clearly searching for any sign of Donna. "Yes."

"She's inside, asleep," Wilfred informed the Time Lord.

The Doctor waited, remaining silent and grim but offering his hand as the older man pushed himself to his feet. Wilfred extended his own hand.

The Time Lord did not grasp it immediately. His eyes moved down, studying the shaking appendage, before he finally took it firmly in both of his hands.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his expression softening.

Overcome with emotion, Wilfred could not speak immediately. He swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping to chase away the vague dizziness gnawing at him. Instead he stumbled, his footing suddenly unsure.

The Doctor took his arm and eased him down into his chair, crouching beside him. The Time Lord's eyes were sharp and his gaze intensely appraising for a few seconds. He reached inside his pocket and withdrew the sonic screwdriver.

Wilfred held up a trembling hand to ward off the small instrument as the Doctor attempted to scan him.

The Doctor paused. "You already know what's wrong," he said with sudden comprehension.

Wilfred nodded. "Yeah."

"You're ill. What is it?"

"Brain tumor. They call it a glioblastoma."

The Doctor rocked back on his heels. "Inoperable?"

Wilfred nodded.

"Is that why you called me here?" Abruptly his expression shifted from one of compassion to one of ire.

Wilfred blinked in surprise as the implication slowly sank in. "That's what started it, but—"

"Because you shouldn't have," the Doctor interjected. "You can't take a risk like that. I told you what would happen if she started to remember, if she saw or heard anything, anything at all that could spark her memories. And you told me you understood, that you'd keep her safe. But now you call me, you risk her seeing the TARDIS and me and undoing it all. Shattering her mind—" He raked a hand through his hair.

"Doctor, that's not—" Wilfred began.

But the Time Lord was far from finished. "Did I fail to make myself completely clear? Was there any doubt in your mind that I was serious? Because I was, utterly and completely serious." He stood and turned away, hands balling into fists at his side.

With considerable effort, Wilfred pushed himself to his feet. He needed to explain, to tell the Doctor that he would never do something so selfish, that it was all for Donna. But his throat was suddenly very tight, and the sky was darkening to near oblivion. He felt himself falling but was powerless to prevent it.

He heard the soft thud as his body hit the ground. Strangely, he felt little pain, though he was vaguely aware that his shoulders and head were trying to hurt. He closed his eyes and drew a breath.

"Wilfred!" The Doctor was beside him again.

Gentle hands moved over his head and neck, and this time when he saw the small, blue glow of the sonic screwdriver, Wilfred did not attempt to stop it. He lay quietly for a minute or so, gathering his strength and waiting for his vision to clear. When he could finally perceive the Doctor's concerned face, Wilfred offered him a pallid smile.

The Doctor helped him to sit up slowly. "I'm sorry," the Time Lord said, his voice gentle with sympathy and remorse.

"Please," said Wilfred softly, "let me explain."

The Doctor nodded, keeping a steadying hand upon the elderly man's shoulder.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Wilfred began. "I was careful. I kept things from her, shielded her from everything I could. But then when she found out I was sick, she came out here to sit with me." He smiled sadly at the memory. "She was that girl you knew again, just for a few minutes. I never intended to make her remember; I didn't even think it could happen that way. But we were sitting here, looking up at the stars, and she said she thought I should find another doctor, and that's when it started to come back to her." He shook his head regretfully. "I shouldn't have had her out here with me like that. I should've realized it might be enough to remind her—"

The Doctor's hand tightened fractionally around Wilfred's shoulder. "I know."

"That night she started having dreams, little bits of memories of the places you went. And the next morning, she was saying things about genes and DNA, things she'd never have known on her own. I was hoping it was just some small fragment, some tiny speck that'd come through and didn't mean anything, but I was wrong. Suppose I'm just an old fool—"

"How bad is it?" the Doctor interjected mildly.

"She's remembering more, things about maths and science, and the dreams've continued."

The Time Lord nodded. "And physically?"

"Headaches, looking peaky, sometimes repeating words and stuttering."

"But she's still coherent, still able to function?"

"Yes. I'm not even sure she's aware of what's happening to her. Sometimes she says something, then she doesn't seem to remember what it was."

"All right. I may have got here in time, then." His hand dropped to his side.

"Can you fix this?"

The Doctor regarded him silently for several seconds. "I hope so."

"What can I do to help?"

"Make sure she's sleeping. I need to have a look at her, but she can't know. Now she's starting to remember, seeing me could be disastrous for her."

"But she didn't recognize you before, just after you brought her home."

"No; the memory fragments that remained were completely suppressed. But they're beginning to resurface, so it'll be different for her now."

Wilfred nodded. "Come on, then."

He began walking back to the house. His legs remained rather unsteady, however, and he did not protest when the Doctor took his arm.

They entered the house quietly. The Doctor waited in the hallway while Wilfred shuffled softly toward Donna's door, keeping a hand upon the wall to steady himself. He found his granddaughter sleeping soundly. He whispered her name but received no response.

He gestured for the Doctor to enter.

The Time Lord's footfalls were nearly silent as he moved into the bedroom. He stood just inside the doorway for a few seconds, his gaze falling upon the slumbering woman. His expression was redolent of deep sorrow.

Soft steps carried him to the bed. He watched Donna for several moments, then he knelt beside her and gently placed his hands upon her head. Wilfred saw his fingers splay over her cheeks and temples. She twitched, her eyelids fluttering for an instant while the Doctor's closed.

"Sshh," he soothed in a whisper.

She stilled, and her features relaxed. The Doctor's face, however, reflected intense concentration; his brow was tight, and his lips compressed. Suddenly Donna jerked as a strange sort of groan escaped her gaping mouth. The Doctor's eyes shot open. He shifted his hands quickly to press two fingers over her forehead.

His granddaughter's sudden pallor and the shaking in her limbs alarmed Wilfred considerably, but he remained motionless. The Doctor's lips moved soundlessly, then he pulled his hands away and rocked back on his heels.

Though Donna's body stilled, her complexion remained ashen. The Time Lord rested his fingertips against her throat for a moment then tucked the blanket around her shoulders. With a silent sigh, he stood and beckoned for Wilfred to follow him out of the room.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

The Doctor declined Wilfred's offer of tea from the Thermos. They had gone back outside without speaking, both worried about waking Donna or Sylvia. The elderly man sank down into his low chair; the Doctor sat beside him on the ground.

"She looked like she was in pain," Wilfred said.

The Time Lord nodded regretfully. "She was."

"But you were able to fix her?"

"No. I won't be able to do it all in one go. She started to go into psychic shock just now, and I can't risk a full-blown episode; it could—probably would—kill her. I'm going to have to do this gradually, in stages."

"How long will that take?"

"Four or five days. It'll still be hard on her, but I can probably avoid sending her into shock if I do it slowly. 'Course that'll mean that she needs to be kept away from anything, anything at all, that could spark her memory."

"But those things're all around us," Wilfred protested weakly. "There's still stuff on the telly about the Earth moving—"

"Can you get her away from here?" he interjected. "Send her someplace remote, somewhere without television and newspapers and people talking?"

Wilfred considered this for a few moments then nodded gravely. "When she was a little girl, she always said she wanted to visit the Hebrides. She'd read some book about a horse that was set there…"

"Yes?"

"Friend of mine owns a cottage on the Isle of Gigha. I could probably take her there. Season's ending now, so there wouldn't be many tourists."

The Doctor nodded in approbation. "That could work. How soon can you arrange it?"

"I'll phone Finlay first thing tomorrow. We can probably leave by noon." The old man's eyes wandered toward the house. "Suppose she can't deny her old granddad one final trip at this point."

"I'm sorry. I know the timing isn't good."

Wilfred looked at him, his gaze clear and steady. "It doesn't matter. If I can do this one last thing to help Donna, it's worth it." He offered the Doctor a mirthless smile. "Radiation can't have added more than a few weeks, anyway."

"Have you already started it?"

Wilfred shook his head. "Was supposed to yesterday, but I cancelled the appointment. Had to try an' sort all this first."

The Doctor rubbed at the bridge of his nose. How firmly was Wilfred's fate set in the time lines? He couldn't be certain; his senses felt murky. "There might be something I can do," he finally said.

"I know you're trying—"

"No, Wilfred, I mean for you."

Their eyes met, a glimmer of comprehension passing between them. "I need to know Donna's all right first."

The Time Lord nodded. "I understand."

They sat quietly, watching the stars and planets as the sky gradually cleared. Wilfred was obviously exhausted. His hands shook continuously, and his color was quite poor. Still, his expression was rapt as he studied the heavens, and the Doctor understood the origins of Donna's wanderlust.

When the ill man began to shiver, however, the Doctor stood and helped him to his feet. "Try to get some rest," he advised kindly. "You'll have a long day tomorrow."

Wilfred nodded. "It's funny," he said, his voice gravelly, "but the idea of doing this with Donna, of going away, just the two of us this one last time… well, almost seems to make this," he touched his brow, "worth it."

Uncharacteristically at a loss for words, the Doctor simply offered a nod. "Come on," he urged with a hand at Wilfred's elbow.

But the elderly man balked when his foot touched the old blanket wadded up near the telescope. "Suppose it worked after all," he murmured.

"Hmm? What's that?"

Wilfred pointed his quavering finger at the lump beneath the blanket. The Doctor bent to pull away the tatty fabric.

"Wasn't sure if it would," Wilfred continued. "Didn't seem sophisticated enough, but it did."

"This is a radio," the Doctor said, taking a moment to examine the contraption. "Oh, that's clever. You boosted the wave frequency. This can send a signal nearly to the Moon."

"The Moon? You were that close?"

The Doctor blinked at him. "Me? Did you think you could reach _me_ with this?"

"If you were close enough to Earth. And you were. I can't believe that you were."

"Wilfred," he replied gently, "I didn't get a radio signal from you."

Clearly surprised, Wilfred asked, "Then how did you know to come?"

The Doctor withdrew the psychic paper. "I got your message on this."

"What'd it say?"

"'Donna.' Just 'Donna.'"

Momentarily perplexed, they stood beneath the canopy of stars, each wondering precisely how the Doctor had gotten Wilfred's message. Finally the Doctor tucked away the folio with a shrug.

"Get to bed, Wilfred," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow night at Gigha."

* * *

Donna had required far less convincing than Sylvia regarding the trip. Wilfred's granddaughter smiled sadly and blinked back tears, amenable to whatever activities would make him happy during his last days. His daughter, however, immediately opposed the idea.

"Don't you even want to try to get better?" she'd railed. "Radiation's the only hope; you heard the doctor. And if you go away, if you put it off again, the tumor's only going to get bigger an' spread. An' you've already got worse just over the last few days."

There was little he could say to placate her. He would not risk telling her about the danger Donna faced by remaining in the city. He felt certain that his daughter's very vocal response to this information would only exacerbate the situation. So in the end he simply faced down Sylvia's disapproving glare with a kiss upon her brow then allowed Donna to take his arm and lead him out the door.

* * *

They traveled for hours, taking three trains and two boats. They reached the Isle of Gigha just before sunset. Reluctant though he was to admit it, Wilfred was exhausted. As the small ferry docked, he found that he barely possessed the strength to stand. He looked up, intending to ask Donna for help.

She was standing at the railing, gazing out over the rocky coastline. The sky blazed orange and rose as the sun sank beyond the steel grey horizon. Her face showed mild wonder at the rugged natural beauty before her. When she turned back to look at him, she was smiling.

"Never thought I'd see this," she said. "I used to dream about it, used to wonder what it would be like." She wiped a hand across her eyes, poignancy tempering her joy.

"Don't feel sad, sweetheart," he told her. He found a bit of energy and rose from his seat, coming to stand beside her. "We should've done this a long time ago."

Her hand came to rest over his. As the chilly air seeped through him, he was struck by the warmth of her skin. Her cheeks had a light flush to them. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.

After a brief stop at the local market to purchase groceries, Donna secured a taxi to take them to Finlay's cottage. The silhouette of the small house was just visible in the twilight as they drove along the narrow road. The stone cottage sat on the edge of a marsh; waves lapped at the beach a stone's throw from the back porch.

The setting was remote enough to ensure little contact with the outside world. While the cottage had electricity and running water, there was no telephone or radio or television. The village was a good forty minute walk, so the chance of Donna's returning there was slim.

As Wilfred put away the groceries, she pulled out her phone. Several minutes of tapping, shaking, and mild cursing yielded nothing but a weak, sporadic signal.

"Damn! Thought this'd work out here," she finally said.

"It's all right. I think we can manage for a few days without a phone."

"But you might need something," she replied. "An' Mum wanted me to let her know how things're going."

"We'll manage. Now, how about you make your granddad a cup of tea?"

Indeed, the shred of vitality he had harnessed earlier was waning rapidly. He sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. Donna set aside her phone and knelt before him.

"You all right?" Before he could respond, she continued, "Maybe we shouldn't've come here. It was a long trip, and you must be exhausted."

"I'll be fine. Just need a nice cuppa."

She ran a gentle hand over his cheek. "You're cold. I'll put the kettle on and start a fire in the hearth."

He nodded gratefully. "That'd be lovely."

She set to work on the small tasks, but she turned back to study him repeatedly. Several times her mouth opened, and her expression changed to one reflective of great concentration. However, she did not speak for some time.

Finally she finished the tea. As she brought the cup to him, she said, "When we get home, you have to promise me you'll call the doctor straightaway and set up those appointments."

He nodded tiredly, but before he could say anything she continued.

"Because the radiation's going to help. Even if it doesn't destroy the car, car, carcinogenic cells, it'll interfere with cellular reproduction, duction, suction, function." She drew a breath then continued, "Radioactive isotopes'd be the best option for that because they'd prevent the cells from completing mitosis—meiosis—my, my toes, no mitosis. "

Wilfred reached out a shaking hand to grip her wrist. "Donna," he said firmly.

She blinked. "What?"

"That's enough. Let's not think about any of that while we're here."

"But you—"

He shook his head. "Do this one thing for me. When we get home, I'll do whatever you ask, but for now, this is what I want."

She sighed but nodded in acquiescence. "All right. But the minute we're home—"

"Right. But not a moment before." His gaze was an entreaty, a desperate plea that he hoped she would not refuse.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and again he noted how warm her skin felt. Perhaps he was just chilled. But when he looked up at her face, he saw a strange brightness in her eyes, and he knew that it was not from unshed tears.

* * *

Silver moonlight bathed the beach. The dark cottage was merely a shadow against the grassy dunes. But it was not indiscernible to the lone figure who crept with quiet steps over the sand.

Finding the cottage and its two inhabitants had not proven terribly difficult. His sensors had picked up the faint traces of artron energy that still clung to Donna, making her unique among the people who dwelt on the small island.

Now he walked toward the darkened cottage. At first he thought that no one was awake, but as he drew nearer, he could see a faint glow from the far window. Someone had left a soft light on. That made his errand a bit easier, because even though he could see quite well in near-darkness, like a cat his vision was more acute with a hint of light to reflect off the enhanced cells in his retinas.

Still, it would be best if he could get inside the tiny house and do what needed to be done without rousing anyone. He moved more slowly, taking his time to ensure complete silence. He kept away from the small lighted window, instead going to the back entrance. The gentle whoosh of the surf masked the slight creak that issued from the old wooden door as he pulled it open. He paused, looking about the kitchen. There was no one in sight.

He walked with soft, surreptitious steps into the hall. The light came from the room to the left; the door was ajar. The other room, toward his right, was completely dark. That must be where she was sleeping. He turned right.

"Doctor!"

The whispered voice was hoarse, but his acute ears easily caught the word. He continued walking toward the door without turning around.

"Doctor?"

Now the voice was hesitant, and he could hear the old man's breathing quickening. As his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, Wilfred had noted the difference in build and height. Whoever he was expecting, it was not this visitor.

"Who the hell are you?" Wilfred hissed.

The elderly man's illness was evident in his scent, and the intruder did not think him capable of rapid movement. But of course he did not know Wilfred. The hand that clutched suddenly at his arm forced the visitor to stop just shy of Donna's door.

"What do you want?" Wilfred asked. "We haven't got much money on us, but you can have what's here—"

The intruder turned around to see the face of the one who accosted him. Wilfred's eyes widened in shock and fear as he received an answer to his previous question and saw who delivered it.

"I want the one who has traveled through time."

"Donna? No, you can't—"

The intruder's arm shot out, his hand slamming against Wilfred's chest. The old man fell back, landing heavily upon the floor. His breathing slowed, and he did not move again. The newcomer walked into the room to find the woman still sleeping. He sniffed deeply; she smelled of something vaguely ill, too, but it was different than the man's scent of slow decay.

He lifted the tracking device quickly and scanned her. Yes, she was the one. The trace was not as strong as he'd anticipated; his earlier scans had shown a heavier concentration of the rare element. Still, it clung to her, so she was undoubtedly the one he sought. In a single long step he was at the bedside, one hand covering her mouth. Her eyes shot open, and her fists rose defensively. But the moment his thumb pressed hard against her brow, her eyelids lowered obediently.

He picked up her limp form and carried her from the house, utterly heedless of the motionless body sprawled upon the floor.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

The Doctor strode over the heath, keeping to the darker areas. Admittedly, there was little chance that Donna would glimpse him; he had waited until two in the morning before stepping from the TARDIS. The ship, shrouded in the crumbling ruins of an ancient barn, sat about a kilometer from the cottage. Even so, he preferred to err on the side of caution.

Pale light shone through a back window, and he surmised that Wilfred had left a small lamp on. The gesture was unnecessary, but it was indicative of the old man's concern for his granddaughter. Of course he would want to guide the Time Lord to the house.

Steps slowing, the Doctor focused his acute hearing upon the dwelling. Nothing but stillness met his ears. He placed his hand upon the door, waiting for a moment to reassure himself that Donna was indeed sleeping. If she were awake, he was certain he would hear her; she could not remain silent for long. He grinned thinly at the thought.

He opened the door carefully, noiselessly, then stepped inside. The light at the end of the hallway wanly illuminated the small living room. His eyes adjusted rapidly, acuity sharpening within a few moments. He glanced around, noting the two open doors at either end of the hallway. He could see the kitchen beyond the living room, and a narrower door appeared to lead to the bathroom. Donna's room would surely be the darker one.

He padded across the floor to peer cautiously though the door. The bed was empty. He sucked in a breath, immediately scanning the bedroom. He saw an open suitcase on the floor, and he could smell the subtle vanilla aroma of her lotion. This was the right room. Quickly he pressed himself against the wall; she must be in the bathroom. His gaze moved to the narrow doorway. Why would she be in there without a light and with the door open?

He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing all of his senses upon the immediate vicinity. Donna was not here, but someone else was nearby. His eyes shot open, and he stepped back into the living room. His gaze raked over the sofa, the chairs, the hearth, and then to the dark corner where he saw a crumpled form upon the floor.

Switching on a light, he hurried toward the motionless man.

"Wilfred!" he cried, falling to his knees.

He pressed his fingers over the man's throat then exhaled a sigh of relief. Quickly he scanned Wilfred with the sonic screwdriver. His illness was no worse. However, as the Doctor ran his hand over the man's head he found a knot above his left ear. Wilfred had fallen and struck his head against the hearthstones.

The Time Lord gently lifted each eyelid to study Wilfred's reaction to the light from the sonic screwdriver. There was no evidence of concussion; he would rouse soon.

The Doctor placed a pillow beneath his head then went to the kitchen to soak a dish towel in cool water. As he pressed the cloth over the swelling, Wilfred groaned softly then opened his eyes.

"Doctor?" he questioned blearily.

"Yes, Wilfred, I'm here. You've fallen and hit your head, but you'll be all right."

Wilfred pushed himself up to a sitting position, aided by the Doctor's hand at his back.

"Easy," the Time Lord cautioned, watching the elderly man's pale face.

"Donna," he gasped.

"She's not here. Do you think she went out—"

Wilfred shook his head. He was very agitated. "No, no." His eyes flicked to her door then toward the window. "She didn't, not on her own. It took her."

The Doctor blinked in confusion. "Took her? What do you mean?"

"That thing. I thought it was you at first. It came in from the beach, walked through the house. But when I spoke to it and it turned around, I saw—" He grew even paler and pressed a hand to his chest.

"What did you see?" the Doctor entreated, fear burgeoning at the man's words.

"It was tall, thin, looked human from the back. But when it turned round, I saw…" He swallowed and took a breath. "I saw its face."

"What did it look like?"

"Its eyes… They were dark, black I think, with no pupil. And its nose was flat and flared. Its mouth was like some sort of sea creature, with little tentacles or something hanging from the lips."

The Doctor tried furiously to match the description with a species, but he could not visualize the creature.

"Was there anything else?" he asked urgently.

"I don't know. I only saw it for a few seconds, then it pushed me, and I suppose I fell."

The Doctor was already lifting his hands as he spoke. "Wilfred, I need to see it."

Wilfred nodded his assent. The Time Lord placed his fingertips against the man's temples and closed his eyes. The image was clear, but it matched nothing he had ever seen.

He opened his eyes and dropped his hands. "I don't recognize it. Did it say anything?"

Wilfred drew another shaky breath. "It said it wanted the one who'd traveled through time."

The Doctor shot to his feet. "I have to find her. If they ask her about time travel, if they even mention it, it could trigger everything."

Wilfred struggled to rise, tottering a bit as he followed the Doctor toward the door. "Then let's go."

The Time Lord spun around. "No, Wilfred, you can't. You're in no shape—"

"She's my granddaughter. I should've been able to protect her. This is my fault."

The Doctor shook his head remorsefully. "No, it's not. It's my fault entirely, and I'm the one who's going to sort it."

"I'm going with you."

He abhorred the cruelty in his own voice, but it was unavoidable. "No, you're not. You'll only slow me down. Stay here, Wilfred."

"But I—"

"Stay here," he repeated with irreproachable firmness.

The old man accepted the minor defeat and sank down onto the couch. "Bring her back to me."

The Doctor spared one moment to reply, "I will."

* * *

Returning to consciousness proved a dilatory undertaking for Donna. Truth be told, she might have postponed the inevitable just a bit, but that was only because of the throbbing in her skull. Who could blame her for taking her time to awake?

She balanced in an odd haze, straddling the border between sleep and wakefulness, for quite some time. She was aware that she lay upon her back on a hard surface, but her thoughts were not clear enough to consider what had happened to her mattress. She thought she heard hushed, raspy voices, but perhaps that was just the wind or the slushing of the surf.

She would see the ocean when she woke. She and her granddad were staying near the beach, on the ruggedly beautiful Isle of Gigha. The setting was idyllic, tranquil, just the sort of place where they could both have a lovely rest…

It was the sharp pang of memory that finally jolted her to full awareness. Her granddad was ill; he had brought her out here for a final trip, one last opportunity to spend a little time with her. Through her half-closed eyes, she could sense light. It must be morning, and he would be wanting some breakfast.

Donna opened her eyes, blinking away the glare and blur. Why was it so bright in the tiny bedroom? There was only one window… As her vision cleared fully, she saw the wooden beams above her head. They looked old, probably antique, but the light fixtures hovering beneath them were definitely new and very modern. She had never seen anything quite like them before. And what the hell were they doing in her room? She felt certain that they hadn't been there last night.

Her head was still aching fiercely, and she lifted her hand, intending to rub soothing fingers over her brow. But something caught at her wrist, preventing more than a few inches of motion. She glanced down to find a shiny metal cuff encircling her forearm. Her gaze shot to her other arm to find the same restraint.

"Oi!" she cried indignantly, then she looked to the side.

Umbrage instantly faded to clawing fear, and she gasped in shock. Dark, probing eyes met her frightened gaze, and strange mouths dripping with disgusting, ragged tendrils of skin opened to offer explanations.

Four figures loomed over her. All seemed ready to speak, but only one, the tallest of the small group, uttered words that she could comprehend.

"Tell us," it said. "Tell us how to use the energy."

"What?" Donna spluttered. "What're you talkin' about? Where am I, an' what've you done with my granddad?"

The creature shook its head. "Granddad?"

"Yeah. The man in the house with me. You better not've hurt him—"

"He is unimportant. You are the one we need."

Her trepidation was ebbing. Inexplicably she was cycling back to anger, feeling that these aliens—she knew without a doubt that's what they were—could be dealt with most effectively through words. That's how one handled these sorts of situations, wasn't it?

"What the hell do you need me for?" she snapped.

"You know how to use the energy."

"What energy? I'm just a temp from Chiswick."

"Artron," the creature said slowly, pronouncing the word with care.

"Art what?" She blinked; the pain in her head was worsening.

"Artron. You have used it to travel great distances."

"I've never been further than the Canary Islands! An' I got there on a plane, an' as far as I know it ran on aviation fuel." Were the lights getting brighter?

Her captor shook his head and bent over her. She could see the horrid little shreds of skin quavering as it exhaled and inhaled. "Tell us about artron energy." Its tone was dully insistent.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" she cried, squeezing her eyes shut against the agonizing flare threatening to devour her skull.

"You have used it to travel through time," the creature said.

"No," Donna groaned, "no, no, no." Surely her skull was splitting open now.

"It pains her," another gravelly voice said. "The pain may keep her from speaking."

"We must know what she knows."

Fire surged through her body, singing her very soul. She gasped once, loudly, as a single convulsion shook her, then the bliss of oblivion carried her away.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

The Doctor walked slowly along the beach, his gaze fixed upon the damp sand. The tide was coming in, washing away evidence of recent tracks, but he hoped he might find some trace of footprints. He sighed in frustration and defeat when he realized that he would discover no hints about Donna's abductor in the sand.

"Something," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, "there's got to be something…"

He looked up at the sky. The waning gibbous moon offered soft light, but there was nothing of note for it to illuminate. His eyes moved over the water then shifted to scan across the heath. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, and he began to fear that whoever had taken Donna had whisked her off in a ship. But that would leave traces of fuel, of distinctly unearthly energy, and he could pick up those. Oh, he'd been an idiot not to think of this first thing.

His hand dipped inside his pocket to retrieve the sonic screwdriver. He adjusted it quickly before holding it aloft. The scan took less than two seconds, but to him it felt like hours. Finally he lowered his hand to study the instrument with a satisfied nod.

He had noted an anomaly approximately one kilometer to the northwest. The energy trace was faint, but it was definitely foreign. He left the beach to walk with rapid strides over the marshy earth. This portion of the island was sparsely populated, so finding a spaceship should not prove difficult.

He increased his pace as he neared the suspected area. He looked about in every direction, expecting to find a vessel of some sort, since the energy signature indicated an atmospheric fuel burn. Yet his anxious eyes saw nothing but a few old, rotted boards scattered over the expanse of heath.

Had the ship already departed? Was it possible that he was too late? He would have to return to the TARDIS; his ship could track an alien craft easily enough. But the TARDIS was at least twenty minutes away, and time was of the utmost essence. His hearts hammered against his ribs as he acknowledged that it was possible—even likely—that he was already too late. If Donna had seen her kidnapper, the mere vision might have been sufficient to unlock the fragments of memory he had suppressed deeply within her subconscious.

He berated himself for failing to take everything from her mind. He had removed a great deal, the vast majority of what she had seen, felt, and experienced while traveling with him. But human minds were rather haphazard; the organization was not as precise as that within a Time Lord's psyche. Sometimes tiny remnants of images, sounds, or emotions remained hidden in some dark corner of the human memory. To wipe away every miniscule trace would have required him to remove the essence of her identity, to expunge her entire personality, and he simply had not been able to bring himself to do that to her.

Yet now he wished he had. Donna might have lost herself, but she would have kept her life.

The Doctor's hands had clenched at his sides, and he had ceased walking. He stood rigidly amid the tall grasses and scraggly shrubs. He closed his eyes and intoned, "I'm sorry."

In the dark stillness of the night, he caught the smallest of noises. He cocked his head to the side, listening. The breeze moved lightly through the marsh grass, barely a whisper as the blades brushed against each other. But nearby, to his right, there was an absence of sound.

He walked quietly through the grass, nearing the dilapidated pieces of wood. A house had stood here once, many years ago, but all that remained were a few bits of its roof or walls. He nudged a board with the toe of his sneaker before realizing that there was no grass in the immediate vicinity. The dirt was soft and loose here, too. He dropped to his knees. His hands moved through the soil, brushing it away to reveal a large door set into the earth. He pressed his ear over the wood. He heard muffled sounds: Someone was down there.

The Doctor reached for the rusted handle and pulled open the door.

* * *

Donna was dragged forcefully back to consciousness, kicking and screaming all the way. Admittedly, she couldn't kick due to the restraints strapped over her legs, and she was unsure whether the noises she heard issued from her mouth or from the roaring in her head, but still she resisted re-entry into the real world with all her might. Sadly, her might had grown a mite less mighty in recent hours, so she was powerless to resist when impelled back to awareness.

"Open your eyes," she heard. "I know you're awake and can hear me."

The voice seemed vaguely familiar, and Donna was just a bit curious to know who was speaking to her. If it was the person who'd interrupted the blessed blackness, she'd give him a piece of her mind. Still, complying with the simple directive proved extraordinarily painful. The light seemed to pierce her eyes and burrow deep into her skull.

"Bollocks," she groaned. When her vision cleared and she could discern the figure before her, she groaned again. "Oi, what d'you want now?"

The alien with the lip issue loomed over her. His eyes were still strangely blank, rendering his expression implacable. She realized that his hand was very near her head, and through the thrumming ache she felt something cold against her temple. She jerked her head to the side.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded with all the contempt she could muster.

"You were not conscious. You cannot tell us what we need to know if you are unconscious," the creature replied with perfectly staid logic.

"I can't tell you anything!" she objected. "I don't know who you think I am—"

"You are the one who has traveled through time," he reminded her.

"Time?" Donna repeated. "Time, dime, rhyme." She hissed in a breath as the pain intensified. "No," she moaned.

Another voice spoke. "You see, she is in too much pain to speak of it. We must obtain the information the other way."

"But she knows. I can see that she knows."

"Yes. But the pain may kill her if she tries to tell us. If the body dies, the information will be lost to us."

Through the reddish haze clouding her vision, Donna saw the second speaker take the shiny device from the first one's hand. He lifted it toward her.

"No," she groaned, "just leave me alone."

"We cannot."

The device was pressed against her temple, and again she felt a surge of cold. It began to numb the pain, but it dulled her thoughts, too. She opened her mouth, yet only a low gurgle came out.

"Prepare her," said one of the aliens, but she could no longer determine which one was speaking.

She felt her body jostled and wondered muzzily if she were moving. Really, it didn't matter. All she cared about was the cessation of her pain and the return to the lovely world of darkness.

* * *

Narrow stone steps led down into the dark cellar. The Doctor adjusted the sonic screwdriver to provide a beam of soft light then made his way down the stairs. Roots and cobwebs hung from the ceiling, but those in the path of the staircase had been removed. Someone had come down here recently.

He paused when he reached the last step, directing the light around the room. The cellar was large and empty; it had not been used in many years. A few rotted barrels lay in the corners, but aside from these he saw only the dirt floor and stone walls. Yet he had heard something; he was certain of it. He listened carefully. There, near the far wall, was a small noise. He hurried forward, pressing his hands and ear over the cool, damp stone.

He could not discern what he was hearing. The cadence seemed wrong for voices, though. Was it footsteps? He spun around, shining the light over all the walls, squinting in concentration as he tried to find a door or passageway that led to the adjacent area. All of the walls, however, appeared solid; he saw no apertures.

He returned his attention to the nearest wall, running his hands over it, tapping gently and listening to the resonance. This wall was solid. He moved on to the next. It was in the center of the third wall, the one opposite the staircase, that he found the loose stones. He began pulling them away, setting each on the floor as quietly as possible. As soon as he had cleared an opening wide enough to peer through, he shone the light inside.

There was a short corridor, and beyond it a closed door. Light glowed around the edges of the portal. He paused for a moment to listen again. Now he heard nothing. Undeterred, he removed more rocks until he had created a space sufficient for his lean body to pass through. He slipped inside the passageway, moving toward the door with muted steps.

He eased open the door, carefully and soundlessly, then peeked inside.

"Damn it!" he cried, flinging back the door with enough force to crack the wood as it collided with the stone wall. The Doctor stormed into the room.

* * *

She was definitely moving. Donna knew this for a fact, because she was sure that nothing else would leave her feeling quite so queasy. What the hell was wrong with her? While the searing agony in her head had temporarily retreated to a simmering ache, she remained bleary and confused.

They'd done something to her; she could almost remember. It was those sodding aliens with the weird, drippy lips and empty, ebony eyes. One of them had touched her temple with a device which seemed to assuage her pain but leave her in a thick fog.

Her body was jostled, and she was aware of a change in the air temperature. Before she'd felt warm, but now it was cold and damp. With great effort, she raised her eyelids to find darkness above her. She was outside, and she could hear the gentle murmur of the surf nearby.

Abruptly the movement ceased, and she realized that she had been lowered to the ground. Her wrists and ankles were still restrained by the metal bands, but she was able to wriggle her fingers and brush them over the moist sand. Somehow that single, small, willful gesture gave her a sense of autonomy.

She needed to get away from these creatures. Even her shrouded mind recognized that fact. They wanted something that she could not give them. What had they said about traveling through time? They were barmy, simple as that. Yet even as this thought tried to assert itself, Donna found her lips opening and a single word slipping out.

"Artron," she whispered. She felt the flames licking at the inside of her skull again.

One of the aliens bent over her, watching her with his large, blank eyes. "Tell us," it said.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Tell us the formula for artron," it persisted.

"Can't." She gritted her teeth against he onslaught of pain.

The creature straightened up and spoke to its cohorts. Through her pain, Donna tried to understand their words.

"…arrive soon… extract the information."

"…cannot remain in the vicinity…this planet… reconfigure the power coils once we've synthesized it."

"... at least half a parsec… further as soon as we can."

Donna blinked. A parsec was 3.08568025 x 1016 meters, or 3.3 light years, so they were planning to take her very, very far away. She groaned at the gnawing pain, biting at her lower lip until she could muster the strength to speak.

"Hey, dumbo," she panted.

One of the creatures leaned over her; she had no idea which one it was, since they all appeared identical to her.

"You have information for us?" it asked.

"Yeah, I do." She inhaled shakily, trying to steady her ragged breathing. "You can't synthesize artron energy in space. You can't synthesize it at all. You have to get it—" She grunted and gasped in a breath. "—from a source. It's impossible to make."

"Is this true?"

She groaned. "Yeah."

"Where do we find a source?"

"Not out in space. Right here, on Earth, almost under your… noses." Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she lay limply, rivulets of sweat running down her cheeks.

"The pain has taken her again."

"Yes. We cannot wait any longer."

An odd vibration filled the air. Donna's fingers fluttered in the sand. She was lifted again and carried toward the dark dome that rose silently from the shallow water.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	8. Chapter 8

The Doctor spared a few seconds to inspect the empty room, noting the lights that hovered near the ceiling. That particular technology was known to several dozen societies, leaving him no specific clue about who had taken Donna. An old wooden table sat in the center of the room, and he found several indentations and scrapes that indicated the movement of something heavy over the wood. He rested his cheek against the table top, sniffing deeply. There was Donna's faintly vanilla-scented lotion again; she had been here, and not long ago.

A second doorway stood at the far end of the room. Through it he found another corridor, this one sloping upward. It had been constructed hastily, created with powerful tools that blasted the dirt back, packing it hard enough to create solid walls. He shone the light along the tunnel. It was long, probably several hundred meters, but it was clearly the route used to carry Donna away.

He ran the length of the tunnel, emerging into the night. As he took in his surroundings, he discovered that he was near the beach again but a good two kilometers north of the cottage. His gaze searched the stretch of sand desperately, but he saw no one. He hurried toward the shore, eyes fixed upon the sand.

Finally he found traces of movement. There were large, narrow footprints leading out to the water. He thought there were at least four separate sets, but he could not be sure. What he did know with gut-wrenching certainty was that none of the prints had been made by Donna. She was either unwilling or unable to walk; he sincerely hoped it was the former.

"Where are you?" he murmured in growing frustration.

The ship must have left its passengers at the old cellar, which they had prepared as an interrogation room of sorts. Donna had been taken there, but for some reason they had abandoned the initial locale, bringing her to the beach.

He adjusted the sonic screwdriver again to scan for energy traces. There was a faint hint of discharge in the immediate vicinity; the ship had been here at one time, but the traces were quite weak. The vessel had likely landed in the water, which would carry away the emissions in the flow of the tide. He could not track the ship.

He had no other recourse but to return to the TARDIS and use his ship's advanced sensors to try to determine the alien vessel's path. In all likelihood, Donna's captors had left the Earth while he was still in the cellar. Once in space, it would be extremely difficult—quite nearly impossible, he admitted with great reluctance—to find them.

He turned away from the water, taking one more moment to glance at the footprints again. He bent down to trace the outline with his fingertip. He did not recognize the shape. It might have belonged to any number of races.

He was just getting up again when he noticed the faint marks in the sand just beyond the prints. At first he thought they were merely the result of something scraping over the fine grains—possibly a litter of some sort. But then he noticed the pattern. He held the sonic screwdriver over the small scrawl, illuminating it. He found the numbers and symbols of a rather complex equation.

Despite his anxiety, a smile played at his lips. "Brilliant," he murmured.

He rose quickly and adjusted the screwdriver again. Scanning for fuel residue was useless, but now that he knew the ship used a sonic frequency for cloaking, he could easily check for that.

It took only a second or two for him to pinpoint his target. His long legs carried him rapidly across the beach as the tide swept in, erasing the mathematical symbols Donna had traced upon the sand.

* * *

Donna thought that she was dreaming. At the very least, she was quite sure that she was not awake. She was cocooned in obscurity, snug in the depths of darkness. Still, she had the sense of activity from without, even though she was powerless to escape the abyss. And wasn't that just the way one felt when immersed in a dream?

A tiny thought tried to niggle its way to the surface of her consciousness—something about waking, resisting, seeing what was happening around her. But the wisp of idea was ephemeral, and as soon as it brushed against her mind it was gone.

The dream shifted, changing from blank blackness to a sort of hazy grey, and now there was sound filtering into her senses. She preferred the previous version, because the noises were bothering her head, and they were threatening to rouse her from her lovely stupor. She was becoming aware of other sensations, too. She was too warm, hot in fact, and she wondered if she'd put too heavy a blanket on the bed.

No, the heat wasn't from a duvet; she knew that now. It emanated from a glow deep within her. Flashes of light and color played through her mind: the brightness of stars and fire, blue and pinstripes and white canvas shoes, and brown eyes, large brown eyes that barely concealed his sadness, but she'd helped him with that, brought a little spark of light into his desolate life.

The stars exploded behind her eyes, and the fire flowed through her veins like lava. Donna heard moaning, and she realized that it was coming from her own throat.

The murmur of voices was a soft susurration like leaves rustling in the wind. A gentle whirring and subtle vibration tickled her ear, and she thought that if she could open her eyes she would see the familiar, small device with its little lights and sonic settings, and it would be in his hand, those long, slender fingers moving over it.

The lava oozed from her pores, burning her skin, and a scream tore from her raw throat.

"Now," she heard. "Do it now. Her body cannot sustain this any longer."

The whirring intensified to a buzzing, and the tickle turned into an itch. Donna's hands clenched reflexively, fingernails digging into her palms. Surely her blood was molten now, melting the flesh from her bones.

Something touched her brow: a cool, soft hand that soothed the fire just a bit. She sobbed in relief. He was here, and he would make everything all right.

"Doctor," she gasped, finally finding the strength to open her eyes.

Ragged lips and empty eyes met her gaze. A single, choking sob escaped her as tears burned hot trails down her cheeks.

* * *

Now that he knew how to recognize it, the Doctor had no trouble finding the ship. The sonic cloaking device was easily deactivated; it was not terribly sophisticated. He hoped that the rest of the ship and its passengers would prove similarly simple to manipulate.

The vessel was a moderate size, perhaps twenty meters across and forty meters in length. Only the top thrust above the surface of the sea; the rest of the ship must be partially buried in the sand beneath the shallow water. Such a position would further dissipate any vibrations or energy discharge, rendering the ship virtually invisible to most scanners.

The Doctor waded through the water toward the dark dome. It lay only a few dozen meters from the shore, and he wondered what had kept the travelers here. They had Donna now; he was certain of that. He felt a small glimmer of hope that she remained alive. She had left him the message in the sand only minutes ago.

As he approached the ship, he considered why they had taken her. Wilfred recalled that her kidnapper had said he wanted 'the one who traveled through time'. Were they looking for someone with specific knowledge about time travel? They wouldn't be the first… But why would they think that Donna possessed this information? And for that matter, how could they know that she had accompanied him on his journeys through the eons?

He stopped short, sucking in a breath. Time travel left traces. He reeked of artron energy from his centuries of travels within the TARDIS. Donna would have remnants of this, too. But they would be faint, hardly discernible to any but the most elaborate scanner. His energy signature, on the other hand, would be much more obvious, as would his ship's.

Had these visitors' instruments picked up the TARDIS when he landed in Chiswick? Had he led them directly to Donna? For a moment, the Doctor felt as though he had been punched in the chest.

But there was no time for recriminations. If Donna were still alive, seeing the interior of a spacecraft would almost certainly be the final impetus for an explosion of fragmented memories.

He placed his hands upon the cold metal dome, moving them about until he found the lock. He disengaged it quickly with the sonic screwdriver and opened the hatch.

The Doctor had entered through a side portal, a fortunate mistake since the short corridor was deserted. He crept along until he reached the door then peered through the small window. He had found the control room, and it was temporarily deserted. Quickly he scanned for biosigns within the ship. He found five, all clustered on the aft side. The good news was that he felt certain he could handle four aliens, whoever they were. The bad news was that one set of biosigns was extremely tenuous.

The only exits from the corridor were to the exterior or to the control room, so he slid open the door and walked quietly into the spacious chamber. He spared a few brief moments to examine the equipment, hoping to determine the level of technological sophistication he would likely face, as well as the species responsible for this ship. The first issue was easily addressed; these visitors, while far advanced of twentieth-century humans, were less sophisticated than Daleks. He judged their equipment roughly equivalent of that possessed by the Slytheen. Lightning fast space travel was no problem for them, but even the most sluggish time trips were as yet impossible.

The ship contained some weapons capabilities, but he thought these were most likely for defense rather than specifically for attack. Still, he quickly disabled the energy beams, preferring to err on the side of caution.

That small task accomplished, he passed through the interior door and into another narrow corridor. At the end of this he saw an open door, and from inside he heard noises. There were husky voices speaking rapidly and the soft, humming grind of more than one machine. With quick yet quiet steps, he moved toward the doorway.

The arm that slammed across his chest caught him utterly by surprise. He was thrown back against the wall, momentarily overpowered by the creature before him. Its strength was unexpected given the lankiness of its body. But then, the same could be said about him.

His initial response was to fight off his captor, but he delayed this action for a second to assess the situation. His gaze locked onto the face before him.

The Doctor did not flinch at the uncommon depth of the dark eyes or the extraordinary clusters of barbels lining the mouth. These were clearly highly evolved creatures with finely tuned senses. While he did not recognize their specific species, he was able to discern a great deal about them by virtue of their anatomical features. They would be extremely intelligent, able to perceive and process subtle environmental data with a remarkable degree of accuracy. However, such advanced senses tended to preclude profundity of emotion; the amygdala's development would be suppressed by the enlargement of the somatosensory area, which would necessarily impinge from the parietal into the frontal lobe. Ironically, their evolution precluded precisely what they sought.

He turned his head to see three more gangly figures hunched over a small platform, huddled closely together, thus obstructing most of his view. However, when they all turned toward him, the slight shift opened up a narrow gap between their bodies, and through this he caught a glimpse of chestnut hair.

"Get away from her!" he cried, attempting to wrench himself free from the arm firmly against his chest.

The grip grew tighter, and the creature locked its fingers over his wrist, pinning his left hand against the wall. He still held the sonic screwdriver in his right hand, and he attempted to lift it. However, he was thwarted immediately as his captor swung him swiftly around and pushed him with considerable force into a chair. He landed in the seat with a small thud. Again he was mildly surprised at the strength demonstrated by this being.

He tried to keep his grasp upon the screwdriver, but another creature had stepped away from the platform and now joined its companion in clamping iron fingers over the Doctor's wrists and wresting the instrument from his hand. He knew that resistance would result in several broken fingers, and he suspected that he would need those digits for future activities, so he did not offer excessive opposition.

Still, he was less than pleased when two metal bands were fastened over his forearms, securing him to the sturdy chair. The sonic screwdriver was set upon a nearby counter. Both creatures stepped away from him and back toward the platform. He watched with blazing eyes as one stretched a long, thin hand out toward a machine, removing an attachment with precise motions. The Doctor kept his gaze upon the creature's arm as it rotated back toward the platform.

He could now see Donna's prone body as her captors shifted about, preparing a space for the creature holding the attachment.

"What have you done to her?" he demanded hotly.

The creatures did not look at him. However, one replied laconically, "Nothing yet."

The Doctor saw that the speaker held a small, flat probe against Donna's temple.

Livid, he asked, "What the hell is that?"

"It is necessary to keep her alive," the bearer of the instrument replied, adjusting it with a flick of his thumb.

The Time Lord suspected that the device emitted vibrations similar to delta waves, which were most likely assuaging some of the inevitable anguish Donna would experience if she were fully conscious. He could see her face now. Her eyes were closed, and her skin was deeply flushed.

"Please," he entreated, "release me so that I can help her."

"Help her?" a gravelly voice repeated.

"Yes. She's dying; you can see that."

"We know. But we are keeping her alive until she has given us what we need."

The attachment was pressed over Donna's sweat-slicked brow. The Time Lord's eyes flicked from the device to the machine. He watched the guttering lights and momentarily blank screen.

"Neural extraction," he hissed. "You're planning to take her mind."

"Yes. It is the only way to obtain the information we need."

"About time travel. You want to know how to travel through time," he confirmed icily.

"Yes. It is necessary."

"For what?" he asked.

"For our survival," was the economical reply. Despite the creatures' lack of emotion, he heard a slight quaver in the speaker's voice.

"Of your species? Who are you? Where are you from?"

"We traveled from Chondros, in the Ciprensian System."

The Time Lord knew the system, but he could recall little about the planet. Hoping to obtain more useful information, he queried, "You said you need the information for your survival. What do you mean?"

He noticed that while he and the creature were conversing no one moved to activate the neural extractor.

"It is not important for you to know," replied the Chondrosian. "Once we have obtained the information, we will leave. We want nothing else with your kind."

Donna moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered, but she did not wake.

He replied coldly, "No, nothing but their knowledge, even if taking it will kill one of them."

"She was already dying. I could smell her cellular decay."

"You're the one who took her?" the Time Lord asked, ire sparking again at the memory of finding Wilfred crumpled upon the floor.

The creature nodded.

"There was no need to hurt her grandfather," he rebuked. "He's just a sick old man."

"He hindered my passage."

Suppressing his fury temporarily in favor of more practical matters, he said, "You tracked her, didn't you? All the way out here."

"Yes. We followed the trace of a special type of energy."

That confirmed his suspicions. He had caused this; he was responsible for leading these creatures to Donna's doorstep. Because of him, she lay dying on the platform, surrounded by parasites greedily grasping at her mind.

"Tell me exactly what you want from her. What is it you need to know?" he asked.

"It is not necessary for you to have that information."

"I think it is. Because if you use the scanner that led you to her on me, you'll find that I'm saturated in artron energy, soaked from head to toe, inside and out. She doesn't know anything about it," he lied. "She's only got faint traces from traveling for a short time with me. I'm the one you want, the one who can tell you everything you need to know."

A hundred barbels vibrated questioningly as the Chondrosian who had initially restrained him removed a small device from its tunic. It held out the instrument, which immediately issued a sharp whine.

"He tells the truth," the creature said. "The artron remnants are much stronger on him."

"Of course they are. Where do you think most of the energy originates?" the Doctor replied.

"She has told us that it cannot be created artificially; it must be taken from a source," the Chondrosian said.

"And that's the extent of her knowledge," he retorted. "That's all I've told her."

"It seemed that she knew more but was unable to tell us. Her mind is badly fractured."

The Doctor shook his head. "That's all she knows," he reiterated. "She's very ill and extremely confused. If she were conscious, I'm not even sure she could tell you her own name. It's a wonder she remembered anything at all."

"Still, we will remove all the information she possesses."

"Aren't you listening to me?" the Doctor nearly shouted. "It's all jumbled up, just a mishmash of images and bits of random thought. Anything at all that she learned from traveling with me is nothing more than a vague impression. None of it would mean anything to you. And the vast majority of it—at least ninety-nine percent—is going to be her life, her family, her work. None of that's of any use to you."

"We can sort through it and determine its usefulness."

"There's no point! I can tell you everything you need to know. I can explain why you haven't been able to harness more than a shred of artron up to this point."

Four faces turned toward him; while still bland, their expressions indicated mild interest.

"And you will tell us where to get it?" asked the Chondrosian holding the instrument to Donna's head.

"Yes."

They waited expectantly without moving.

This was the point at which he could negotiate. But he thought it wise to build up a bit more interest so that he had something of real value to trade.

"Artron energy," he began, "is a form of temporal and psionic energy. It's the energy generated by thought and perception. While most humanoid species generate a very small amount naturally through their thoughts and perceptions, those with greater intuitive and emotional capabilities create much more. Unfortunately for you, your brains have developed in a manner contrary to that needed to produce artron energy. That's why any attempts you've made at temporal displacement have failed. Without at least several quanta worth of artron, successful time travel's not possible, at least not in a way that ensures the survival of the traveler."

Four heads nodded as full comprehension sank in. The creature who had restrained him said, "We were aware of most of those facts."

"Most," he repeated, "but not all. And there's more, so much more, that I can tell you."

"Yes," four voices replied in unison.

He waited a beat then said, "Release me so that I can see to her, then I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"There is nothing you can do for her," said the Chondrosian holding the neural extraction apparatus. "She is dying."

"There may be something," he rejoined. "Let me try!"

The device was slipped over her brow. The Doctor pulled at his restraints, but they were exceedingly strong. "Let me go!" he cried. "Please, I have to help her!"

The neural extractor was switched on to the scanning function; the screen flared with a massive collage of overlapping colored lines worthy of a Jackson Pollock painting. A single flick of the operator's finger would activate the extraction, and everything Donna ever was and ever could be would be plundered from her.

"It is too late," said the creature closest to the machine. "The brain cannot sustain this level of activity. The body will expire soon."

The Doctor knew that the words were true. Donna's neurons were blazing uncontrollably and would burn out within a matter of minutes. There was little he could do for her now, even if he were at her side. Still, she did not deserve to die alone, lying on a cold, metal slab surrounded by uncaring strangers.

He tugged at the bands surrounded his forearms again, anger and indignation fueling his strength. Yet it was not enough. His hands curled into furious fists as he watched the lines upon the screen continue their frenetic motions. Donna was gasping for breath now, and he saw her eyes moving beneath her closed lids. Suddenly he realized that the delta wave device had been pulled away from her temple.

"What the hell have you done?" he demanded. "That's the only thing keeping her alive!"

"We will remove her information," the extractor operator replied stoically. "Then we will permit her to expire."

"'Permit her'?" he barked.

"Yes. Her suffering will cease. That is all we can do."

Clearly there were no words of entreaty that would sway these impassive creatures. In their own way, they were attempting to help her. Still, he could not accept her death as an empty shell as a solution.

"If you do this," he said, enunciating each word with precision, "you'll get nothing from me."

"We will get everything from you," one of the Chondrosians corrected tonelessly. "We would prefer your cooperation, but we do not require it."

His statement was true, of course, at least in part. The Time Lord could shield his mind against the neural extractor with partial success, he thought. But he would not be able to prevent its effects entirely. Some splinters of memory would undoubtedly be lost…

With a single, tiny motion the neural extractor was activated. Donna jerked, and her eyes opened to stare sightlessly at the Doctor.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	9. Chapter 9

Abruptly the Doctor ceased struggling against his bonds. He forced his arms to go limp and relaxed his left hand. Slowly he folded his thumb and fingers inward then pulled back his arm. His wrist cleared the band, but his knuckles prevented his hand from slipping free. He inhaled deeply then carefully released the breath as he forced his hand through the rigid metal band. He felt the bones shift; the phalanges in his middle and ring fingers made a small, snapping noise of complaint, but he ignored the discomfort as his hand slid from the restraint.

His arm shot out toward the counter, his hand fumbling for the sonic screwdriver. He grasped it with his thumb and forefinger and managed to transfer it to his right hand just as the creatures noticed his motions.

One lunged toward him, but he had already activated the small instrument. He released his right hand then leaped up, kicking the chair toward his attacker. The creature stumbled back as the chair struck its leg.

The Doctor's eyes were on the flashing screen. He watched intently for perhaps two seconds then aimed the screwdriver at the machine. It emitted a high-pitched whine of mechanical protest. All four Chondrosians lifted their hands to cover their ears. Their barbels quivered in discomfort at the increase in sound wave frequency.

He shoved them aside and slammed his hand over the activation switch on the extractor. The screen blinked into blackness. With the cessation of noise, however, the creatures returned their full attention to him. All four swiped at him.

"Get out!" he shouted, rapidly adjusting the settings on the screwdriver to produce an even shriller sound than the machine had. "Out!" he repeated, pointing the small instrument at the door.

The creatures were moaning in pain, utterly disabled by the assault. The Time Lord propelled two of them bodily toward the portal, sweeping along the others in their wake. The moment they had stumbled out into the corridor, he shut the door, sealing it with the sonic screwdriver. He left the small instrument on; the continued sonic frequencies would keep the creatures well away.

Then he spun around to face the platform. Donna lay motionless, her blank eyes still open. For an instant he froze, certain that he had acted too late.

"I'm sorry," he said, raking his hand helplessly through his hair.

Her lips were parted slightly, as if she were about to speak. Slowly he walked toward her and removed the band from her brow. He rested his palm against her cheek. Her skin remained very warm; it would take some time for her body to cool.

Dried tears left slightly rough traces upon her cheeks. He brushed his thumb over the tracks. There was a small weal on her forehead. He wondered for a moment how she had hurt herself, then realized it was likely the result of her abduction. He traced the swelling with his fingertip, delaying the inevitable as long as possible.

Finally he lowered his hand to rest his fingers against her throat, knowing that he would feel nothing but aware that it was important to check. Wilfred would want to know that he had done everything he could…

"Donna?" he croaked, blinking in astonishment at the fluttering beneath his fingertips.

He pressed his ear against her chest. The faint beating he heard was unimaginably beautiful, more mellifluous than the greatest symphony. He straightened and cupped her face gently in his hands, resting his fingers over her temples. He closed his eyes in concentration.

Her mind was murky; he could discern little beyond basic sensation and a gentle glow of sentience. She was alive, but there was a very distinct possibility that her brain was severely and irrevocably damaged. There were many injuries that he could repair given the proper equipment, but acute assaults to the neurons were usually irreversible.

Still, Donna's heart was beating and she was breathing: She was alive. He turned away for a minute to adjust the neural extractor. He had to repair several circuits before it was functional again, but once it was he carefully placed the band over her forehead then switched on the machine to the basic scan setting.

He studied the screen intently for several seconds then turned back to Donna. He lifted her hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. Her pulse was a little stronger and marginally steadier.

"Doctor?"

Her hoarse voice was barely a whisper, but he heard it quite clearly.

"Yes, Donna. I'm here." His gaze flicked quickly to the monitor, then he smiled down at her.

Her eyelids fluttered, nearly closing, before she blinked at him. "What… what happened?" she croaked.

"Oh, a great deal."

Her gaze was clearing, and she squinted up at him, then she looked around the room. "What sort of hospital is this?"

"It's not a hospital."

She frowned in obvious confusion. "Then where the hell am I?"

He hesitated just a moment before asking, "What do you remember?" His eyes moved to the screen again. The bands of light had steadied into a simple, rhythmic pattern.

She lifted her hand weakly to rest her fingers against the band. "Dunno, really. How'd I get here?"

He shifted his gaze back to her face. "Where were you before?"

"At home."

"And when was that?"

"After tea, I think. On Saturday. Is it still Saturday?"

"What month?"

"Huh?"

"Donna, what month it is?"

She gave her head a slight shake of exasperation. "June, dumbo."

He tried to keep his voice steady as he asked, "What year?"

"2006. What're you, from outer space or something?" A roll of her eyes punctuated her mildly scathing tone. "God, my head." She rubbed at her brow. "I didn't faint, did I?" she asked, then before he could answer added, "Did someone call you?"

"In a manner of speaking."

She blinked several times as if trying to clear her vision. He leaned in to peer at her eyes, searching for signs of neurological damage.

"This your equipment, then?" she asked, gesturing weakly toward the neural extractor. "We at a clinic or somethin'?"

She looked back at his face. Her gaze was earnest and fairly trusting, but devoid of true recognition.

"Donna, who do you think I am?" he asked.

"You're a doctor, right?"

"A doctor?" He emphasized the article.

"Yeah, or a paramedic or somethin'. You were checkin' my pulse and my eyes and stuff. And you put this thingy on my head."

"Yes."

"So, a doctor, yeah?"

He nodded slowly and offered her a thin smile. "Yeah."

"Who called you? Was it my granddad?" She frowned in concern, and when she spoke again her voice was softer. "He'll be worried. Where is he?"

In her tone he heard the compassionate woman she had become while she was with him. Two years of her memories were obliterated, yet the glimmer of her potential remained: The spark might be reignited. The Doctor took her hand in his. The action seemed to surprise her, but she permitted it.

"There's been an accident," he said gently.

"My granddad? Did something happen to him? Was he hurt, too—"

"No, Donna, it's not like that. The accident happened to you."

"To me? But I'm all right now, aren't I? You can send my mum and granddad in—"

"The accident," he continued, "caused some damage, but I think I can repair it."

"Damage?" she repeated. "What sort of damage?"

He touched her brow softly. "In here."

Her eyes locked on his, and he saw her fear.

His fingertips brushed over her forehead to touch her temple. "I want to help you. Will you let me try?"

Her breath hitched. "Yes."

He nodded then removed the band from her head. He would require the sonic screwdriver to reprogram the machine, and without the sonic emissions he was unsure how long he could keep the Chondrosians from the room. They would undoubtedly break through the seal within a relatively short time.

Pushing aside his doubts, he focused his thoughts entirely upon the neural extractor. He only required a minute or so to reconfigure the settings. He reached for the band again and placed it over his own brow.

"Doctor?" Donna asked, clearly perplexed by his actions.

If he had harbored any doubts about the sagacity of his decision, hearing his name from her lips dashed them all away.

"What're you doing?" she queried.

"Helping you."

He offered her a brief reassuring smile then switched on the machine. He closed his eyes and concentrated, retrieving specific images: Donna, tears glistening in her eyes as she heard the poignant song of the Ood; her pale face, smeared with ash, begging him to save just one life; her gleeful expression as she realized she could decipher the numbered plaques on Messaline.

The small screen flashed with vibrant color. He was vaguely aware of the increased clamor at the door, but he maintained his focus for several more seconds. Finally the Doctor opened his eyes and removed the band, then aimed the sonic screwdriver at the machine once again.

He rapidly finished the adjustments by hand. The door creaked in protest as the Chondrosians began to force their way through. He lurched for the portal, slamming his shoulder against it as he resealed the breech. It could not hold indefinitely; the creatures were using another device to break the seal even as he replaced it.

He returned to Donna. She had managed to sit up, albeit it rather woozily, to observe the strange actions within the room and outside.

"What the hell is goin' on?" she demanded weakly. "Who are they?"

She had not been able to see the creatures with any clarity, but they had made their presence known. The Doctor reached for the band.

"I'll explain everything soon," he lied. "There isn't time now." He began to fit the band across her brow again.

"Oi!" she protested, "wait one minute! Tell me what you're doin'."

"Donna, please, you have to trust me." Keeping one hand over her forehead, he reached back and activated the neural extractor with full power.

Her eyes rolled back, and Donna slumped down limply. He eased her back onto the platform then immediately gave his full attention to the small screen. He watched intently, his fingers quivering slightly as they hovered over the activation switch.

"And… now," he uttered, shutting off the machine.

His motions were more tentative as he eased the band away from Donna's forehead. He reached for the sonic screwdriver with a quick glance at the door. The vibrations had ceased; the creatures had abandoned their efforts, at least for the moment.

He scanned the unconscious woman, finding brain wave activity slightly suppressed but close to normal. He exhaled a sigh of relief.

His reprieve prove short-lived, however, when he looked back at the door and saw Wilfred's ashen face in the window.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	10. Chapter 10

Wilfred's eyes moved to the platform. "Donna?" he mouthed, his expression utterly bereft.

The Doctor hurried toward the door, removing the seal as quickly as he could. He had a fairly good idea about what he would find on the other side, but he had little choice in his actions. He would not risk Wilfred's life in addition to Donna's.

The door slid open. As anticipated, the Time Lord found all four Chondrosians surrounding Wilfred. Two gripped his arms tightly, more to keep him on his feet than to prevent any attempts at gaining freedom.

"Let him go," the Doctor ordered. "He can't harm you."

"No," agreed one of the creatures impassively, "he cannot. But we can harm him if we must. Give us the sonic device."

One long-fingered hand moved toward Wilfred's throat in a gesture of clear threat. A single thrust of the powerful palm would snap the man's neck in an instant. The Doctor surrendered the screwdriver.

Wilfred ignored the exchange. All of his attention focused upon the motionless form of his granddaughter in the room beyond.

"Donna?" he questioned again. "Doctor? What's happened to her? Have they killed her?"

"No," he replied. "She's going to be all right."

The Chondrosians' barbels quavered in mild surprise. "Her brain could not sustain the massive increase in activity," one said, clearly perplexed. "She was dying. How can she be alive?"

"Your machine saved her life," the Time Lord answered. "In removing all neural traces from the past two years, it purged her mind of the overwhelming onslaught of activity."

"Two years?" Wilfred repeated. "What's that mean? Has she really forgotten every bit of her time with you?"

The Doctor offered him a small, poignant smile then returned his gaze to the Chondrosians.

"All of Donna's knowledge about time travel and artron is gone," he informed them. "She doesn't know anything at all, and I've deleted the data your machine took from her."

Immediately the two creatures restraining Wilfred tightened their grips. The elderly man gasped in pain but quickly steeled himself with a glance at his granddaughter.

"Do whatever you want to me," he said. "It doesn't matter."

"Perhaps not to you," replied a Chondrosian, "but it does to him." He nodded toward the Doctor. "We know he was angered by the injury I gave you when I took her. He will not see you harmed."

The creature's gaze locked upon the Doctor, blank, dark eyes meeting an intensely blazing glare.

"You're right," the Doctor said frostily, "I won't."

"Doctor, please," Wilfred pleaded, "it doesn't matter. You and Donna are all that's important."

"No," the Time Lord corrected, "_you_ and Donna are." He shifted his gaze back to the Chondrosian. "So let him go, and I'll tell you what you need to know."

"No," the creature replied, "you give us the information first, and then we will release him and the woman, too. But if you attempt to deceive us in any way, we will execute them both." He paused for a moment, barbels vibrating slightly, then added, "This is not the preferred outcome, but if it is necessary for the greater good then we will see it done."

The Time Lord glanced quickly back at Donna then at Wilfred's ashen face. "At least let him sit with her. Let me see they're both safe."

The Chondrosian considered the request briefly. He seemed the implicit leader of the small group. "As you wish."

The two creatures holding Wilfred released him. The old man stumbled momentarily. The Doctor took his shoulders gently to steady him.

"All right?" the Time Lord asked, studying the man's eyes for a moment.

"Fine." Wilfred found his footing and shuffled into the room toward Donna. His tremulous fingers brushed over her cheek.

"Now Doctor," said the leader, "you will relinquish your knowledge." He nudged the Time Lord back into the room and pointed at the chair.

The Doctor eyed the neural extractor warily. "You don't need to use that. I'll tell you about artron—"

"We have no way of judging the veracity of your words, and we do not wish to detain any of you until we can confirm your statements. This is the most efficient method for obtaining the information."

"Stealing it from me?" the Doctor retorted. "Removing it from my memory so that I'm unable to use it? Has it occurred to you that I need it as much or more than you do?"

"Our need is urgent," the leader replied. He inclined his head toward the chair. Another of the creatures began adjusting the machine.

"You said it was for the greater good," the Doctor reiterated. "What did you mean?"

"Sit," the Chondrosian instructed. Two others were moving toward Wilfred again.

The Time Lord complied, lowering himself rigidly into the chair. His fingers curled around the arms. It was clear that he would receive no voluntary explanation about the aliens' reason for wanting to accomplish successful time travel.

The leader reached toward Donna to retrieve the headband.

"Don't you hurt her!" Wilfred cried. "Don't you dare do anything else to her."

"She is of no use to us now," the leader replied implacably. He turned toward the Doctor to fit the band across his brow.

"Doctor," Wilfred asked softly, "will they take it all? Will you…" He swallowed. "Will you know who you are?"

The Doctor offered him a cheerless smile. "Maybe it's for the best. There are so many things…" He sighed. "You and Donna will be all right."

"But Doctor—"

"Just promise me you'll take care of her and of yourself. Let her have some more time with you."

The elderly man nodded somberly. "Thank you."

"No," replied the Time Lord, "don't. This is all because of me. And I'm sorry."

The leader's hand moved toward the activation switch.

"Please," the Doctor beseeched, his voice suddenly filled with the passion of a condemned man facing his executioner, "you don't need to do this."

"Yes," the leader said stolidly, "we do." He pressed the switch, and the machine flashed to life.

The screen filled instantly with a cacophony of color and light. Closing his eyes, the Doctor groaned; his hands clenched into tight fists. For a few seconds his expression reflected anguish, and then he slumped down into the chair, facial muscles slack as consciousness left him.

The screen flashed brightly then flickered, the lights waning and finally receding into blackness.

With the simple explanation of, "The process is complete," the leader switched off the machine and removed the band from the Time Lord's head.

Wilfred left Donna's side to fall to his knees before the Doctor. "You've killed him!" Shaking hands pressed over the Doctor's chest.

"No," the leader said, "he is still alive. But his mind is now empty. It was unavoidable."

"Empty?" Wilfred repeated. "What the hell does that mean?"

A flicker of regret seemed to cross the Chondrosian's face, but perhaps it was simply an involuntary muscle twitch. "He will know nothing of himself, nothing of the world."

The old man was gently shoved aside as two of the aliens pulled the Doctor's drooping body up and began dragging him out of the room. Wilfred clambered shakily to his feet. Another Chondrosian had lifted Donna from the platform.

"You will be released now," the leader informed him.

Wilfred followed the small group through the corridor and into the control room. The Doctor's legs hung limply as he was hauled along. One foot caught on the captain's chair, and abruptly the Time Lord slipped from the aliens' grasp and fell with a soft thud to the floor. His head struck the edge of one of the instrument banks.

"Doctor!" Wilfred shuffled forward, but a strong arm restrained him.

The Chondrosians bent to retrieve the fallen body. Lean as he was, the Time Lord seemed an unwieldy burden. His arms flopped about, and for a few moments a cumbersome sort of dance ensued with the Doctor's limbs flailing this way and that. Finally he was settled between the two again and steered more carefully toward the door.

The entire party splashed through the shallow water. Wilfred was thoroughly chilled by the time they reached the beach. He watched as Donna and the Doctor were placed upon the sand, then he fell to his knees beside them.

The Chondrosians moved away, back toward their ship. However, their leader offered a final statement.

"His knowledge will save an entire planet."

Wilfred was too angry, frightened, and fatigued to consider the weight of the alien's words. He was only vaguely aware of the ship shimmering into invisibility then taking off with a rush of wind and heat several minutes later.

All he could focus upon were the two insensible bodies lying beneath his trembling hands.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	11. Chapter 11

Wan, pre-dawn light shrouded the beach in grey. Wilfred blinked hard to sharpen his vision as his eyes moved from his granddaughter to the Doctor. The Time Lord's mouth opened, and a small groan escaped him.

"Doctor?" Wilfred enquired anxiously.

The Doctor's eyes opened slowly as a frown crossed his features. He lifted a hand to rub over his forehead. "Ouch."

"Doctor?" Wilfred repeated, realizing that the name would have little significance to the man before him but needing to say it anyway. "How… how do you feel?"

"Like someone knocked my head against a wall, which I suppose is close to what happened." He pushed himself up onto his elbows with a wince, his gaze shifting out toward the sea. "They've gone?"

Wilfred nodded. "Yes. But—" He was almost afraid to speak the words. "Do you remember them, and what happened?"

"Yes."

"But I… I thought they'd taken all of your memories, left you as just an empty shell."

"Nope."

The Doctor sat up fully and turned his attention toward Donna. He studied her face for a moment then lifted one eyelid. He assessed her respiration and heartbeat with a gentle palm over her chest.

"She'll be coming around soon," he informed her grandfather.

"Is she… will she be all right? Is her mind the same?"

Donna's eyes fluttered open, and immediately she glowered at the hand still resting against her chest. "Oi! What d'you think you're doin'?"

The Doctor pulled his hand away and grinned down at her. To Wilfred, he replied, "Yep, just the same."

Donna's gaze quickly found her grandfather's worried face. She reached for him, and he pulled her into a fierce hug.

"You all right?" she asked him as she finally drew back

He nodded and offered her a weak yet sincere smile. "Yes, now I know you're fine, sweetheart."

She shook her head as her fingers brushed over the contusion near his ear. "This looks pretty bad, and you're awfully pale."

"We should probably be getting back to the cottage," the Doctor said.

Donna looked at him with a small scowl. "You're the doctor, right?"

"Yes," he replied solemnly.

"We were at that weird clinic, and there was some sort of commotion outside…" Her words trailed off as she struggled to recall recent events.

"Bit of a misunderstanding," the Doctor said casually, "but it's sorted now." He got to his feet and offered her his hand.

Donna took it, rising a little unsteadily. "Ooh," she muttered, "feel like I've sunk four bottles of WKD."

"That's all right," the Time Lord responded. "It'll pass."

Her concern for her grandfather quickly dispelled any remnants of dizziness. She and the Doctor helped Wilfred to his feet, then the trio began the slow journey back to the cottage.

"You never did explain what happened to me," Donna reminded the Doctor. "What sort of accident was I in, and why can't I remember it?"

"I think," he replied, "that we should discuss this over a cup of tea. The cottage just over there."

She cocked an eyebrow at him but did not press for further details. Indeed, her attention shifted to Wilfred, who trudged along with plodding steps but unflagging determination.

* * *

As soon as they reached the cottage, Donna and the Doctor ushered Wilfred into the bedroom. Despite his weak protests, both could see that he was utterly exhausted and had only remained on his feet through sheer force of will.

"Do you feel up to putting the kettle on?" the Time Lord asked her once they had lowered the elderly man onto the bed. "Kitchen's just down the hall."

"I should stay here," she began to protest.

"It's all right, sweetheart," Wilfred interjected weakly. "Good cuppa's just what your old granddad needs."

The Doctor gave her a reassuring nod, and, after delivering a kiss to her grandfather's crown, she turned to leave. However, she paused to make a firm request.

"Doctor, you'll have a look at him, make sure he's all right. He could have concussion—"

"I'll take good care of him," he promised her.

Her expression softened. "Thank you." She gave his shoulder a warm squeeze of gratitude.

Once her soft steps faded, Wilfred sank back against the pillows, finally yielding to the overwhelming enervation. Still, he found the energy to say, "That sounded like our Donna."

The Doctor smiled softly. "A little bit of her is still in there."

Wilfred's eyes widened questioningly.

"I gave her back some small pieces of memory—just a few moments when she experienced compassion, understanding, prudence..."

"And that won't harm her?" Wilfred's voice was strained with a resurgence of concern.

The Doctor placed a comforting hand upon the man's arm. "No. All of the dangerous remnants have been removed." His tone grew more serious as he added, "But you know that means she's lost the last two years of her life. There aren't even the faintest traces of anything she experienced or knew."

"So she has no idea that I'm sick," Wilfred finished.

"No."

"I'll have to tell her," the old man said heavily.

"Let me explain what's happened—that she's had an accident that's caused amnesia. Let her adjust to that first, and we'll help her fill in the gaps later."

Wilfred nodded tiredly as the Doctor withdrew his sonic screwdriver and switched it on. He ran it over Wilfred's head carefully.

"They took that from you," Wilfred said after a moment. "How'd you get it back? And how'd you manage to keep your memories? They told me they'd taken everything—"

"Sshh," the Time Lord admonished mildly, studying the small instrument. He turned it off and tucked it back into his pocket, keeping his hand inside his jacket. With a grin, he said, "I managed to knick it from him in the control room."

Wilfred smiled in appreciation. "I thought all that flapping about was a bit much."

"Managed to get this, too." He produced the scanner the Chondrosians had used to trace artron energy. "Means they won't be able to find Donna or me again."

"Can't they make another?"

"I suppose they can, but I doubt they'll want to."

"Why do I think this has something to do with how you avoided the effects of that machine?"

With a small laugh, the Doctor said, "That's where Donna gets her cleverness. Knew it wasn't from her mum…"

Wilfred snorted softly in agreement.

The Time Lord continued, "After I gave Donna those bits of memory, I did a little jiggery-pokery with the machine. I had a feeling I wouldn't get out of there without at least a few minutes of really unpleasant brain sucking, so I altered the program to record only surface memories but appear to consume everything. Fortunately they didn't check beyond the readouts…" His expression sobered.

"So they didn't take anything from you?"

"Actually, they did. But it was only what I chose to give them."

Wilfred considered this for a few seconds. "For a moment there in the ship, I thought you wanted them to take your memories. I know you've seen some terrible things—"

"I have. And there are times when I wish I could relinquish those memories completely. But I can't. A Time Lord is the sum of his memories…" He looked away.

"I think I understand. But I wish you could have lost just enough to keep back the darkness."

Donna's voice reverberated through the hall. "Tea's almost finished."

The Doctor glanced at the door then back at the old man. "You need to rest."

Wilfred gave a nod of reluctant acquiescence. Before the Time Lord could leave, however, he asked, "She really will be all right?"

"Yes, once she accepts the memory loss. I have a feeling she's not going to be too pleased about that."

"She's our Donna. She'll manage."

"Yes, she will."

* * *

Donna was setting a cup of tea and a small plate of biscuits on a tray when the Doctor entered the kitchen.

"How's he doing?" she asked immediately.

"He's resting now. He had a difficult night."

Deep concern suffused her features. "Does he have concussion?"

"No, but he's exhausted." He motioned for her to sit down.

She frowned but complied. "Tell me what the hell's going on."

He sank down in the chair opposite her. "You were in an accident and suffered a serious head injury."

She lifted her hand to touch the lump on her brow gingerly. "You told me that back at the clinic, didn't you?" She shook her head. "Feels sort of like a dream."

"That's all right; it's to be expected. But yes, I did tell you that."

"And you said you were going to help me, didn't you?"

"Yes. And I did. I was able to heal most of the major damage, but Donna, there was something I couldn't change, something I couldn't fix."

When he reached for her hands, she did not pull away. Her wide eyes were fixed upon him, trepidation clear in her gaze.

He continued, "The injury affected the part of the brain that stores memories. I'm afraid that you've lost some."

"Lost some?" she repeated, frown deepening. "What d'you mean?"

He said, very calmly yet with solid certainty, "It's 2008 now, September."

Donna required only a moment to process the information. "2008? No, it's 2006—" She gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth. "No, that can't be."

"It is," he replied gently. "I'm sorry."

Abruptly she stood, rifling through two of the boxes of canned goods sitting on the counter. "No, that's not—it can't be—" She pulled a crumpled newspaper from the box and opened it with shaking hands. Her eyes skimmed the page. "No, no, that's not right," she said.

"Donna, you and your grandfather brought those boxes here," he informed her mildly. "You arrived at the cottage last night. We're in the Hebrides, on the Isle of Gigha."

"We are?"

He nodded. "You've put your things in the other bedroom, just down there."

She hurried away, and he heard her opening drawers and rummaging through her suitcase. When she returned she was pale, but he saw the beginnings of acceptance in her expression.

He guided her back to the chair and set a mug before her. She wrapped her cold hands around the warm ceramic.

"What happened?" she finally asked. "Was it a car accident?"

"You were on the beach," he replied, offering the most plausible tale he could conjure. "You must have gone out for a midnight stroll, or maybe you were sleepwalking? Do you sleepwalk?" Before she could answer, he continued, "Well, either way, you tripped and hit your head on the rocks. Your grandfather found you and called me."

"But when I woke up the last time, we were on the beach. I was at the clinic, then we were all out there on the sand. That doesn't make any sense."

"We brought the mobile clinic to you," he said quickly. "But later there was an emergency in town, and the lorry had to get back immediately. Wilfred and I told the driver we'd bring you back here."

"Oh." She thought for a moment. "But don't they need you in town?"

"No. I'm just visiting the island. Really I don't have qualifications to treat anyone here, but I'm staying nearby. Lucky coincidence, I suppose."

"Still, if people are hurt, maybe there's something we can do to help."

He reached for her hand again. "Oh Donna, you don't know how good it is to hear you say that."

She drew back a bit in surprise. "What d'you mean?"

"There don't seem to be many good Samaritans around any more. It's nice to know one." Quickly he added, "I've got my mobile. If they need me, they'll call."

She glanced down at the hand he'd held over hers then back up at his face. "Did we—do we know each other?"

"We've met, yes."

"What, when Granddad and I arrived here?"

He took a sip of tea and offered a somewhat noncommittal, "Mmm."

They sat quietly for a little while, then Donna spoke softly. "So what's happened in the last two years? Is my mum all right?"

"She's fine. Well, I think she is. You and your granddad were just talking about her last night. I think she was having dinner with some friends tonight?"

"Wednesday Club," Donna replied immediately.

"Yes, that was it."

"Well, that hasn't changed. Has anything else? Did I miss anything important during the last two years?"

"Oh, just a little bit." He stood and went to the stove. "Let's have another cup of tea, and I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

_To be concluded…_


	12. Chapter 12

Shortly before noon, the Doctor left the cottage. Wilfred was still sleeping, but the Time Lord assured Donna that he would be all right. However, she remained anxious and agitated until he promised her that he would return later to check on her grandfather.

True to his word, the Doctor reappeared just after three o'clock.

"He hasn't woken up yet," she informed him, clearly worried. "I didn't know if I should try to wake him, but you said he didn't have concussion, he was just tired, so I thought it best to let him sleep—'

The Doctor placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. "That was good, Donna. Rest is what he needs most right now. I'll go have a look at him. Why don't you prepare some lunch? I'm sure he'll be hungry when he wakes up."

He could see that she wanted to linger outside Wilfred's door while he went in, but he urged her back into the kitchen. Reluctantly she complied. When he was certain that she had gone, he reached into his pocket and removed a syringe. He slid up the old man's sleeve and injected the pale green contents.

Wilfred jerked slightly then opened his eyes. "Doctor? What're you doing?" he asked blearily.

Ignoring the question, he responded, "How are you feeling?"

Two could play at that game. "How's Donna? She all right?"

He pocketed the empty syringe. "She's fine."

"What's that? What have you given me?"

The Doctor sat down on the chair beside the bed. "Donna's lost two years of time with you. I've given them back."

Wilfred's quizzical look prompted additional explanation.

"The tumor's shrinking even as we speak. I can't cure it completely, but I can give you some more time. And in two years, well, who knows what sort of new treatments may be available?"

The elderly man blinked back astonished tears. "Thank you."

The Time Lord smiled. "You're welcome."

A few clinking sounds drew their attention to the kitchen. "That Donna?" asked Wilfred.

"She's making lunch. I told her you'd be hungry."

"You know, I am." He inhaled deeply. "D'you think she still remembers how to make Toad in the Hole?"

"As long as she learned more than two years ago, yes."

"Have you told her about the memories?"

The Doctor nodded. "She's actually doing pretty well with it."

"Does she know what she's missed?"

"I told her what she needs to know."

Wilfred attempted to elicit further information with an enquiring look, but the Doctor only said, "Sometimes we need just enough knowledge to understand what has to be done but keep us from doing any more."

That cryptic statement was all the Time Lord was willing to offer. Wilfred had the strangest feeling that the words were not intended solely for his granddaughter.

* * *

Inside the small ship, the creatures' barbels quivered ardently. They had downloaded the information extracted from the one called the Doctor. To their considerable surprise, they had found only briefs bits of memories.

They were relieved to discover that their machine had extracted sufficient knowledge for them to harvest and utilize artron energy. Time travel was now within their grasp. However, the next batch of data had left all four Chondrosians stunned.

They had seen terrible things: bloody battles and screeching, murderous phantasms; countless lives lost; incredible anguish that moved even their stoic hearts. And encompassing all of the carnage, madness, and agony was the shimmer of temporal shifting, the dangerous lure of changing events meant to remain on a constant and irrevocable path.

Their leader finally found the words that all four had struggled to call forth. "We can prevent the disaster and salvage our planet, but we must destroy this knowledge once that is achieved."

His plea met no argument. The Chondrosians understood fully what needed to be done.

* * *

Sylvia parked the car, glancing at her father in the passenger seat. He nodded somberly and got out of the car. Both walked into the house with measured steps. Donna had just returned from work. She'd kicked off her shoes and plopped down in front of the telly. She looked up when she heard the door.

"How'd it go?" she asked as soon as they were inside.

Before either could answer, a sharp knock drew their attention to the front door. Donna got up to answer it.

"Oi! What're you doin' here?" she asked, grinning up at the Doctor. She took his arm and pulled him inside. "Mum, this is him, the doctor we met in the Hebrides."

Sylvia nodded curtly. "Doctor."

"Didn't think we'd see you again so soon," Donna said.

The Doctor smiled. "Well, I thought I'd just drop in and see how you're both doing."

"A house call. He makes house calls!" Donna told her mother delightedly.

"I don't make a habit of it, usually. But I happened to be in the area." He walked over to Wilfred and shook the old man's hand. "You're looking well."

"I'm feelin' pretty good, too," Wilfred replied, giving the Time Lord a firm handshake. "Had that MRI today, like you suggested."

The Time Lord nodded. "Right. Wish I'd been able to do one that night, but the machinery was needed elsewhere. How'd it go?"

"Fine. Just like you thought it'd be."

Sylvia reached for the Doctor's hand and grasped it tightly. "Thank you."

"And did you show my scan to the neurologist?" Donna asked, her eyes flicking to the large envelop in her grandfather's hand.

Wilfred cleared his throat. "Yes, sweetheart. He agreed with the Doctor. Damage's been repaired, and there's nothing to worry about, nothing permanent. You're going to be just fine." He passed the empty envelop back to the Time Lord.

"He didn't think I'd need any tests?" she persisted.

"No. He said you'd received excellent treatment, and that it was fortunate the Doctor was there."

"Well," Sylvia said, "I think this calls for a celebration. Dinner at Cappricio's?"

Donna switched off the television; the sounds of opera quickly faded away. "You'll join us, won't you?" she asked the Doctor.

"Yes," Sylvia urged, "won't you? I mean, if you have the time."

"I think I can spare a couple of hours," he replied.

After slipping on her shoes, Donna looped her arm through his. "I'm glad you stopped by. You know you're welcome here any time you're near Chiswick."

"Thank you."

"I hope," she continued, "that it'll be fairly often. Seems like you and I could be good mates."

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, "I think we could."

Wilfred did not miss the poignant yet sincere smile that illuminated the Time Lord's face. As he reached for Sylvia's hand, the old man smiled, too.

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
